problem.

Every few minutes the flame burned low and Stern had to drop on more
alcohol, holding the bottle high above the flame to avoid explosion.

Long before they had compassed the distance to the ground floor the
girl lagged with weariness and shrank with nameless fears.

Each black doorway that yawned along their path seemed ominous with
memories of life that had perished there, of death that now reigned
all-supreme.

Each corner, every niche and crevice, breathed out the spirit of the
past and of the mystic tragedy which in so brief a time had wiped the
human race from earth, "as a mother wipes the milky lips of her
child."

And Stern, though he said little save to guide Beatrice and warn her
of unusual difficulties, felt the somber magic of the place. No poet,
he; only a man of hard and practical details. Yet he realized that,
were he dowered with the faculty, here lay matter for an Epic of Death
such as no Homer ever dreamed, no Virgil ever could have penned.

Now and then, along the corridors and down the stairways, they chanced
on curious little piles of dust, scattered at random in fantastic
shapes.

These for a few minutes puzzled Stern, till stooping, he stirred one
with his hand. Something he saw there made him start back with a
stifled exclamation.