We climbed through the crumbling masonry into a
central, open court. Here a clear spring bubbled up in a
ruined and choked stone basin; close to the ancient well
was their pony, contentedly browsing in the thick grass
that grew around it. From one of its hampers Ruth took
a large cloth bag.

"To carry them," she said, and trembled.

We passed through what had once been a great door
into another chamber larger than that we had just left;
and it was in better preservation, the ceiling unbroken, the
light dim after the blazing sun of the court. Near its center
she halted us.

Before me ran a two-feet-wide ragged crack, splitting the
floor and dropping down into black depths. Beyond was an
expanse of smooth flagging, almost clear of debris.

Drake gave a low whistle. I followed his pointing finger.
In the wall at the end whirled two enormous dragon
shapes, cut in low relief. Their gigantic wings, their
monstrous coils, covered the nearly unbroken surface, and
these CHIMERAE were the shapes upon the upthrust blocks
of the haunted roadway.

In Ruth's gaze I read a nameless fear, a half shuddering
fascination.

But she was not looking at the cavern dragons.