appalled
me. But, bracing himself up as one does preparatory to a high dive,
Smith, nodding to Kennedy to proceed, plunged into the cataract ahead....

CHAPTER XL

THE BLACK CHAPEL

Of how we achieved that twelve or fifteen yards below the rocky bed of
the stream the Powers that lent us strength and fortitude alone hold
record. Gasping for breath, drenched, almost reconciled to the end
which I thought was come--I found myself standing at the foot of a
steep flight of stairs roughly hewn in the living rock.

Beside me, the extinguished lamp still grasped in his hand, leant
Kennedy, panting wildly and clutching at the uneven wall. Sir Lionel
Barton had sunk exhausted upon the bottom step, and Nayland Smith was
standing near him, looking up the stairs. From an arched doorway at
their head light streamed forth!

Immediately behind me, in the dark place where the waters roared,
opened a fissure in the rock, and into it poured the miniature
cataract; I understood now the phenomenon of minor whirlpools for
which the little river above was famous. Such were my impressions of
that brief breathing-space; then--

"Have your pistols ready!" cried Smith. "Leave the lamp, Kennedy. It
can serve us no further."

Mustering all the reserve that remained to us, we went, pell-mell, a
wild, bedraggled company, up that ancient stair and poured into the
room above....

One glance showed us that this was indeed the chapel of Asmodeus, the
shrine of Satan where the Black Mass had been sung in the Middle Ages.
The stone altar remained, together with certain Latin inscriptions cut
in the wall. Fu-Manchu's last home in England had been within a temple
of his only Master.

Save for nondescript litter, evidencing a hasty departure of the
occupants, and a ship's lantern burning upon the altar, the chapel was
unfurnished. Nothing menaced us, but the thunder hollowly crashed far
above. To cover his retreat, Fu-Manchu had relied upon the noxious
host in the passage and upon the wall of water. Silent, motionless, we
four stood looking down at that which lay upon the floor of the unholy
place.

In a pool of blood was stretched the Eurasian girl, Zarmi. Her
picturesque finery was reft into tatters and her bare throat and arms
were covered with weals and bruises occasioned by ruthless, clutching
fingers. Of her face, which had been notable for a sort of devilish
beauty, I cannot write; it was the awful face of one who had did from
stra