The new obstacle was tough. They had blunted their drills, they had no forge, they were too impetuous to resort to slower methods of sharpening. They rigged up two of the kerosene flares and attacked the stubborn rock, placing the explosives and retreating back along the tunnel. These fuses were better timed and went off almost simultaneously with a great blast of compressed air that almost flung them from their feet. After the re-echoing thunder died away they could faintly hear, far above them, the rush of the loosened clay on the cliff. A V-shaped opening had been made, partly choked by the break-up. They scrambled over the barricade in a wild charge, checked by a drift of air, foul with a sickly odor, the channel scent of a long unopened tomb. The truth flashed over them as they hung back waiting for the testing dried grass to burn, instead of merely glow.
Then, bearing the flaming kerosene flares that went streaming out behind them, they raced ahead, jamming elbows, without precedence.
The way widened suddenly with the feel of big space, above and about, the air still tainted with the cloying reek of decay. The lights fought the dark, their pupils adjusted themselves and they stared about them. The cavern was lower than that of the White Chapel, but almost as big, and again there were indications of tunnels leading from it. But their gaze focussed, upon a cry from Red, on a hideous sight. Little groups of dead women, identified by their clothing, sitting, lying, tilted grotesquely against the wall, mummified by the dry cool air
