My guide uttered a few words in the Piedmontese _patois_, which I did
not understand, whereupon the man who had opened the door exclaimed--
"The signore Inglese will please enter."
I hesitated, but I saw that to refuse was useless, so together we went
into a large dark cavern. The bolt of the door was shot back into its
socket with an ominous sound, while our footsteps echoed weirdly through
the distant recesses. The man took up a torch and guided us through
intricate turnings, until at last we came to a door which he opened, and
we found ourselves in a small natural chamber, with wonderful
stalactites hanging from the roof.
Two sinister-looking men, who were seated at a rough deal table drinking
and playing dominoes, rose as we entered.
Neither spoke, but the man who had admitted us poured out some cognac
and handed it to me, afterwards filling the other glasses. The men
lifted them to me and tossed off the contents, an example which I
followed.
"We are safe here," observed Giovanni, turning to me; "safe from the
storm, the frontier guards, from everything."
"I engaged you to conduct me to Lanslebourg, not to bring me here," I
said severely.
He smiled.
"This cave has been the grave of many men," he replied, as he calmly
selected a cigar from the box upon the table. "It may be yours."
"What do you mean?" I cried, thoroughly alarmed.
"Surely you understand," exclaimed the man who admitted us. "We are
outlaws, brigands, contrabandists--whatever you like to call us in your
language--it is quite immaterial. Come with me and I will convince
you."
Again I hesitated.
"Follow!" he commanded, taking up the torch.
Together we descended a short flight of roughly-hewn steps into a small,
dark, damp-smelling cavern below. As he lifted the torch above his
head, I saw that the place was occupied.