awl, they
stumbled across the place by the simplest kind of accident. They had
been dropping down to lower levels the greater part of the day, and
somewhere about three o'clock in the afternoon--they were not quite sure
of the hour, since the sun was masked by the trees--they found
themselves in what looked like a narrow gully. Both sides of it were
lined with thick bushes of golden wattle that shut out all view on
either hand. There were shadows galore in this narrow gully, and the
place itself looked almost as dark as the entrance to the Pit. Cumshaw,
who had a classical education and had not been able to forget it, any
more than the fact that he had once been a gentleman, murmured under his
breath.

"What's that?" Bradby asked sharply.

Cumshaw repeated his quotation. "Facilis est descensus Averno," he said.

"What does that mean?" Bradby enquired, in the tone of a man who
imagines he is being insulted in a language he does not understand.

"It's easy to go to hell," Cumshaw translated.

Bradby shot one sharp curious glance at him, but made no comment on what
he had said. They rode on in silence.

Presently they came to a patch of ground that had been broken by the
wind or the rain, or perhaps both together. The shadows so fell that the
travellers did not realise the treacherous nature of the soil until they
were right in the middle of it. Cumshaw's horse floundered and would
have fallen on its knees had he not reined in sharply. This caused him
to cannon into his companion's mount. Bradby pulled back sharply, in
some way jarring his animal's sore leg as he did so. It reared up on its
haunches with the pain, and in the most approved manner bucked its rider
off. He shot up in the air, described a beautiful half-circle, and
sailed through the barrier of wattle like a human projectile.

Cumshaw slipped off his horse with the quickness of thought. He had
enough presence of mind to tether both his own and Bradby's mount, and
then he cautiously parted the bushes. For the moment he could see
nothing but a great wall of golden blossoms, and then out of the depths
came Bradby's furious voice. He was cursing the horse and the slope and
everything and everyone within hearing in the simple and forceful
fashion of the Australian bushman.

Cumshaw called to him and was answered with an oath.

"Where are you?" he repeated.

"Down here," said the voice, this time modifying its language. "Step
carefully or you'll come a c