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England, George Allan, 1877-1936

"The Flying Legion"


"I don't care much for this heat, or that roaring noise that's getting
louder all the time!"
"You'll follow me, or I'll shoot you down!" the Master flung at him,
crouching around. "I've had enough insubordination from _you_, sir!
Not another word!"
The stooping little procession of trapped Legionaries once more went
onward, downward. The muffled roar, ahead of them, rose in volume as
they made a final turning and came into a much more spacious vault
where moisture goutted from the black walls. A thin, steamy vapor was
rising from the floor, warm to the bare feet.
A moment the Legionaries stood there, blinking in the vague lamplight,
glad of the respite that permitted them to straighten up and ease
cramped muscles.
"No way out of _here_!" Bohannan grumbled. "Sure, we're at the end o'
nowhere. Now if we'd only taken another passage--"
Nobody paid him any heed. The major's exhibition of irrational greed
had lost caste for him. Even Lebon, the orderly, curled a lip of scorn
at him.
All eyes were eagerly searching for some exit from this ultimate pit.
Panting, reeking with sweat, fouled with blood and dirt, the doomed
men shuffled round the vault, blinking with bloodshot eyes.


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