igh of relief escaped his lips. Except for the buzzing
in his brain, he felt all right.

Stanton looked down at his dust-covered clothes, and his fingers brushed
at the dirt and mud, but when they came to his shirt they halted. There
was a hole in his shirt, high up, near the heart. It was not a hole
exactly, but rather a slit which could have been made either with a
knife or sword. There was a dried welt of blood surrounding the skin. A
shudder passed through his tall, strong frame, as he realized that it
was a miracle he was alive. For whatever had done the damage had
penetrated deep into the flesh.

The moon was full, and after a few seconds had passed, Stanton bent and
searched for his weapon which, he was sure, would be close at hand. But
as he found and picked up the long, double-edged sword, a shudder of
distaste went through him, and he dropped his weapon and let it lay
there.

Once more his fingers brushed at the wetness on his temple. He wondered
why the blood was still coming from his head wound, while the cut in his
chest had dried up.

He peered around to see if his attackers were anywhere in the vicinity,
and decided that his immediate location was clear of danger. Another
instant of orientation, and Bly Stanton bent low and scurried from one
patch of cover to another until he reached his goal, the tunnel mouth.
Here he would be safe for the present. The Himlo would not dare to
follow him here.

His eyes, long accustomed to the sight of the broken arch, passed over
the inscription worn deeply and almost illegibly on the green-with-age
metal--_Chicago Greater Subway_, 2107 A.D. He was interested only in
knowing whether or not danger lurked in the shadows. Again he sniffed. A
small smile stole across his mouth. Then the lips tightened in their
wonted thin slit, and he started forward at a long lope into the
darkness.

Here and there were offshoots, darker passages which disappeared into
the Stygian gloom. But his path led straight ahead. Then he was before a
barricade of rocks, the barrier which his men had placed against the
coming of their enemies.

"Ho, John!" Stanton shouted.

* * * * *

The walls echoed the sound, which was followed by a dying whimper of a
voice. "Hi ... Hi! Who goes ...?"

"'Tis I, Bly Stanton," Stanton yelled.

There was a short interval of silence, then a concerted roar of glee,
and a dozen men clambered over the rock pile. They shouted h