The Lost Continent
With the coming of dawn the number of lions about us seemed to have
greatly diminished—at least they made less noise—and as Buckingham and
his party disappeared into the woods, leaving me alone to my terrible
fate, I could hear the grumblings and growlings of the beasts
diminishing with the sound of the chant, which the party still
continued. It appeared that the lions had failed to note that I had
been left for their breakfast, and had followed off after their
worshippers instead.
But I knew the reprieve would be but for a short time, and though I had
no wish to die, I must confess that I rather wished the ordeal over and
the peace of oblivion upon me.
The voices of the men and the lions receded in the distance, until
finally quiet reigned about me, broken only by the sweet voices of
birds and the sighing of the summer wind in the trees.
It seemed impossible to believe that in this peaceful woodland setting
the frightful thing was to occur which must come with the passing of
the next lion who chanced within sight or smell of the crumbling arch.
I strove to tear myself loose from my bonds, but succeeded only in
tightening them about my arms. Then I remained passive for a long time,
letting the scenes of my lifetime pass in review before my mindl’s eye.
I tried to imagine the astonishment, incredulity, and horror with which
my family and friends would be overwhelmed if, for an instant, space
could be annihilated and they could see me at the gates of London.
The gates of London! Where was the multitude hurrying to the marts of
trade after a night of pleasure or rest? Where was the clang of tramcar
gongs, the screech of motor horns, the vast murmur of a dense throng?
Where were they? And as I asked the question a lone, gaunt lion strode
from the tangled jungle upon the far side of the clearing. Majestically
and noiselessly upon his padded feet the king of beasts moved slowly
toward the gates of London and toward me.
Was I afraid? I fear that I was almost afraid. I know that I thought
that fear was coming to me, and so I straightened up and squared my
shoulders and looked the lion straight in the eyes—and waited.
It is not a nice way to die—alone, with one’s hands fast bound, beneath
the fangs and talons of a beast of prey. No, it is not a nice way to
die, not a pretty way.
The lion was halfway across the clearing when I heard a slight sound
behind me. The great cat stopped in his tracks. He lashed his tail
against his sides now, instead of simply twitching its tip, and his low
moan became a thunderous roar.
As I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the thing that had aroused
the fury of the beast before me, it sprang through the arched gateway
and was at my side—with parted lips and heaving bosom and disheveled
hair—a bronzed and lovely vision to eyes that had never harbored hope
of rescue.
It was Victory, and in her arms she clutched my rifle and revolver. A
long knife was in the doeskin belt that supported the doeskin skirt
tightly about her lithe limbs. She dropped my weapons at my feet, and,
snatching the knife from its resting place, severed the bonds that held
me. I was free, and the lion was preparing to charge.
“Run!” I cried to the girl, as I bent and seized my rifle. But she only
stood there at my side, her bared blade ready in her hand.
The lion was bounding toward us now in prodigious leaps. I raised the
rifle and fired. It was a lucky shot, for I had no time to aim
carefully, and when the beast crumpled and rolled, lifeless, to the
ground, I went upon my knees and gave thanks to the God of my
ancestors.
And, still upon my knees, I turned, and taking the girl’s hand in mine,
I kissed it. She smiled at that, and laid her other hand upon my head.
“You have strange customs in your country,” she said.
I could not but smile at that when I thought how strange it would seem
to my countrymen could they but see me kneeling there on the site of
London, kissing the hand of Englandl’s queen.
“And now,” I said, as I rose, “you must return to the safety of your
camp. I will go with you until you are near enough to continue alone in
safety. Then I shall try to return to my comrades.”
“I will not return to the camp,” she replied.
“But what shall you do?” I asked.
“I do not know. Only I shall never go back while Buckingham lives. I
should rather die than go back to him. Mary came to me, after they had
taken you from the camp, and told me. I found your strange weapons and
followed with them. It took me a little longer, for often I had to hide
in the trees that the lions might not get me, but I came in time, and
now you are free to go back to your friends.”
“And leave you here?” I exclaimed.
She nodded, but I could see through all her brave front that she was
frightened at the thought. I could not leave her, of course, but what
in the world I was to do, cumbered with the care of a young woman, and
a queen at that, I was at a loss to know. I pointed out that phase of
it to her, but she only shrugged her shapely shoulders and pointed to
her knife.
It was evident that she felt entirely competent to protect herself.
As we stood there we heard the sound of voices. They were coming from
the forest through which we had passed when we had come from camp.
“They are searching for me,” said the girl. “Where shall we hide?”
I didn’t relish hiding. But when I thought of the innumerable dangers
which surrounded us and the comparatively small amount of ammunition
that I had with me, I hesitated to provoke a battle with Buckingham and
his warriors when, by flight, I could avoid them and preserve my
cartridges against emergencies which could not be escaped.
“Would they follow us there?” I asked, pointing through the archway
into the Camp of the Lions.
“Never,” she replied, “for, in the first place, they would know that we
would not dare go there, and in the second they themselves would not
dare.”
“Then we shall take refuge in the Camp of the Lions,” I said.
She shuddered and drew closer to me.
“You dare?” she asked.
“Why not?” I returned. “We shall be safe from Buckingham, and you have
seen, for the second time in two days, that lions are harmless before
my weapons. Then, too, I can find my friends easiest in this direction,
for the River Thames runs through this place you call the Camp of the
Lions, and it is farther down the Thames that my friends are awaiting
me. Do you not dare come with me?”
“I dare follow wherever you lead,” she answered simply.
And so I turned and passed beneath the great arch into the city of
London.
CHAPTER V.
As we entered deeper into what had once been the city, the evidences of
manl’s past occupancy became more frequent. For a mile from the arch
there was only a riot of weeds and undergrowth and trees covering small
mounds and little hillocks that, I was sure, were formed of the ruins
of stately buildings of the dead past.
But presently we came upon a district where shattered walls still
raised their crumbling tops in sad silence above the grass-grown
sepulchers of their fallen fellows. Softened and mellowed by ancient
ivy stood these sentinels of sorrow, their scarred faces still
revealing the rents and gashes of shrapnel and of bomb.
Contrary to our expectations, we found little indication that lions in
any great numbers laired in this part of ancient London. Well-worn
pathways, molded by padded paws, led through the cavernous windows or
doorways of a few of the ruins we passed, and once we saw the savage
face of a great, black-maned lion scowling down upon us from a
shattered stone balcony.
We followed down the bank of the Thames after we came upon it. I was
anxious to look with my own eyes upon the famous bridge, and I guessed,
too, that the river would lead me into the part of London where stood
Westminster Abbey and the Tower.
Realizing that the section through which we had been passing was
doubtless outlying, and therefore not so built up with large structures
as the more centrally located part of the old town, I felt sure that
farther down the river I should find the ruins larger. The bridge would
be there in part, at least, and so would remain the walls of many of
the great edifices of the past. There would be no such complete ruin of
large structures as I had seen among the smaller buildings.
But when I had come to that part of the city which I judged to have
contained the relics I sought I found havoc that had been wrought there
even greater than elsewhere.
At one point upon the bosom of the Thames there rises a few feet above
the water a single, disintegrating mound of masonry. Opposite it, upon
either bank of the river, are tumbled piles of ruins overgrown with
vegetation.
These, I am forced to believe, are all that remain of London Bridge,
for nowhere else along the river is there any other slightest sign of
pier or abutment.
Rounding the base of a large pile of grass-covered debris, we came
suddenly upon the best preserved ruin we had yet discovered. The entire
lower story and part of the second story of what must once have been a
splendid public building rose from a great knoll of shrubbery and
trees, while ivy, thick and luxuriant, clambered upward to the summit
of the broken walls.
In many places the gray stone was still exposed, its smoothly chiseled
face pitted with the scars of battle. The massive portal yawned, somber
and sorrowful, before us, giving a glimpse of marble halls within.
The temptation to enter was too great. I wished to explore the interior
of this one remaining monument of civilization now dead beyond recall.
Through this same portal, within these very marble halls, had Gray and
Chamberlin and Kitchener and Shaw, perhaps, come and gone with the
other great ones of the past.
I took Victoryl’s hand in mine.
“Come!” I said. “I do not know the name by which this great pile was
known, nor the purposes it fulfilled. It may have been the palace of
your sires, Victory. From some great throne within, your forebears may
have directed the destinies of half the world. Come!”
I must confess to a feeling of awe as we entered the rotunda of the
great building. Pieces of massive furniture of another day still stood
where man had placed them centuries ago. They were littered with dust
and broken stone and plaster, but, otherwise, so perfect was their
preservation I could hardly believe that two centuries had rolled by
since human eyes were last set upon them.
Through one great room after another we wandered, hand in hand, while
Victory asked many questions and for the first time I began to realize
something of the magnificence and power of the race from whose loins
she had sprung.
Splendid tapestries, now mildewed and rotting, hung upon the walls.
There were mural paintings, too, depicting great historic events of the
past. For the first time Victory saw the likeness of a horse, and she
was much affected by a huge oil which depicted some ancient cavalry
charge against a battery of field guns.
In other pictures there were steamships, battleships, submarines, and
quaint looking railway trains—all small and antiquated in appearance to
me, but wonderful to Victory. She told me that she would like to remain
for the rest of her life where she could look at those pictures daily.
From room to room we passed until presently we emerged into a mighty
chamber, dark and gloomy, for its high and narrow windows were choked
and clogged by ivy. Along one paneled wall we groped, our eyes slowly
becoming accustomed to the darkness. A rank and pungent odor pervaded
the atmosphere.
We had made our way about half the distance across one end of the great
apartment when a low growl from the far end brought us to a startled
halt.