on.

On a bare stone bench, five other Atlantean captives were sitting in
miserable silence. They made a grotesque array, for their heads were
crowned with gay yellow and blue flowers, and the upper half of their
perfectly formed bodies gleamed with an application of a
sweet-smelling oil. About their wrists and waists were twined fragrant
garlands of yellow roses which hid the leather straps confining their
hands.

Struggling, Nelson was forced on to the bench, whereupon slaves,
skipping to avoid the lash of a scarred, olive-hued slave driver,
hurried to wash the newly arrived prisoner's limbs, face and hands. A
weary-looking old slave with sunken, rheumy eyes listlessly pulled the
blue chiton from Nelson's broad shoulders, and would have removed the
food pouch had not the prisoner winked vigorously. The ministering
slave glanced swiftly sidewise and, discovering the slave driver's
attention directed to another corner, pulled the upper folds of the
chiton over the food pouch and its precious contents, then set a crown
of yellow roses more or less askew on the American's head. For all the
peril of the situation Nelson could not suppress a fleeting smile as
the phrase, "For I'm to be Queen of the May, Mother," leaped
nonsensically into his brain.

* * * * *

"Yes, I guess they are getting us all dolled up for a sacrifice of
some kind." Nelson's heart began to pound at the thought. Then he
fought for self control. It must be a hideously realistic nightmare!
He, Victor Nelson, American citizen, a quiet birdman, member of the
Caterpillar Club and ex-flight commander of the A. E. F. was about to
be offered as a sacrifice to some hideous, pagan god? Nonsense! He'd
wake up in a minute and hear the drone of a ship on the line.

He blinked, staring fixedly at a single ray of light that came
streaming in through a small, barred window, then glanced sidewise at
his fellow victims, who with Spartan indifference sat waiting for the
end of all things. It was no dream!

From the tiny window came the shrill discordant braying of many
trumpets, and a roar like that of a football crowd arose surprisingly
near. In response, the slave driver lashed the gaudily bedecked
sacrificial victims to their feet with vicious cuts of his pliant
whip, and herded them like a drove of calves down a very long passage,
lit at intervals by those strange column lamps of incandescent gas. In
their red glare the doomed si