



Produced by Judith Boss





THE LOST CONTINENT

C. J. Cutliffe Hyne



CONTENTS

          PREFATORY: THE LEGATEES OF DEUCALION
           1  MY RECALL
           2  BACK TO ATLANTIS
           3  A RIVAL NAVY
           4  THE WELCOME OF PHORENICE
           5  ZAEMON'S CURSE
           6  THE BITERS OF THE CITY WALLS
           7  THE BITERS OF THE WALLS
              (FURTHER ACCOUNT)
           8  THE PREACHER FROM THE MOUNTAINS
           9  PHORENICE, GODDESS
          10  A WOOING
          11  AN AFFAIR WITH THE BARBAROUS FISHERS
          12  THE DRUG OF OUR LADY THE MOON
          13  THE BURYING ALIVE OF NAIS
          14  AGAIN THE GODS MAKE CHANGE
          15  ZAEMON'S SUMMONS
          16  SIEGE OF THE SACRED MOUNTAIN
          17  NAIS THE REGAINED
          18  STORM OF THE SACRED MOUNTAIN
          19  DESTRUCTION OF THE ATLANTIS
          20  ON THE BOSOM OF THE DEEP






PREFATORY:

THE LEGATEES OF DEUCALION


We were both of us not a little stiff as the result of sleeping out in
the open all that night, for even in Grand Canary the dew-fall and the
comparative chill of darkness are not to be trifled with. For myself on
these occasions I like a bit of a run as an early refresher. But here on
this rough ground in the middle of the island there were not three yards
of level to be found, and so as Coppinger proceeded to go through some
sort of dumb-bell exercises with a couple of lumps of bristly lava, I
followed his example. Coppinger has done a good deal of roughing it in
his time, but being a doctor of medicine amongst other things--he takes
out a new degree of some sort on an average every other year--he is
great on health theories, and practises them like a religion.

There had been rain two days before, and as there was still a bit of
stream trickling along at the bottom of the barranca, we went down there
and had a wash, and brushed our teeth. Greatest luxury imaginable, a
toothbrush, on this sort of expedition.

"Now," said Coppinger when we had emptied our pockets, "there's precious
little grub left, and it's none the better for being carried in a local
Spanish newspaper."

"Yours is mostly tobacco ashes."

"It'll get worse if we leave it. We've a lot more bad scrambling ahead
of us."

That was obvious. So we sat down beside the stream there at the bottom
of the barranca, and ate up all of what was left. It was a ten-mile
tramp to the fonda at Santa Brigida, where we had set down our traps;
and as Coppinger wanted to take a lot more photographs and measurements
before we left this particular group of caves, it was likely we should
be pretty sharp set before we got our next meal, and our next taste of
the PATRON'S splendid old country wine. My faith! If only they knew down
in the English hotels in Las Palmas what magnificent wines one could
get--with diplomacy--up in some of the mountain villages, the old
vintage would become a thing of the past in a week.

Now to tell the truth, the two mummies he had gathered already quite
satisfied my small ambition. The goatskins in which they were sewn up
were as brittle as paper, and the poor old things themselves gave out
dust like a puffball whenever they were touched. But you know what
Coppinger is. He thought he'd come upon traces