The huddled lower ranks were the legs, the cluster the body, the upper row an outflung arm and above the neck of the stairway the ancient fortress, rounded and with two huge ragged apertures in its northern front was an aged, bleached and withered head staring, watching.
I looked at Drake--the spell of the bowl was heavy upon him, his face drawn.

The Chinaman and Tibetan were murmuring, terror written large upon them.
"A hell of a joint!" Drake turned to me, a shadow of a grin lightening the distress on his face.

"But I'd rather chance it than go back.

What d'you say ?" I nodded, curiosity mastering my oppression.

We stepped over the rim, rifles on the alert.