FROM ONE TRAP INTO ANOTHER
The light of another day was dimly penetrating those underground
depths before our prisoner was prepared to make his last effort for
liberty. For all the aid he would receive from the pitiful amount
allotted to him he might as well have started hours earlier; but while
he longed to make the trial he also dreaded it. The thought of that
box-like passage, through which he would be obliged to force his way
without a chance of retreat, was so terrible that he shrank from it as
we all shrink from anything dangerous or painful. Then, too, if he
should escape, he would want daylight by which to guide his future
movements. So, after tossing for hours on his hard bed and considering
every aspect of his situation, he finally fell into a troubled sleep
that lasted until morning.
For breakfast he had only water, but of this he drank as much as he
could, for he knew not when he would find another supply. Then he
selected such of the copper tools as he thought might prove useful.
Into one of them, which was a sort of a pick, he fitted a rude wooden
handle, while the others, which had cutting edges and were in the
nature of knives, he thrust into his pockets. Having thus completed
his simple preparations, he took a long look, that he well knew might
be his last, on the daylight that was now so doubly precious, and then
resolutely faced the inner gloom of the ancient mine.
Determined to save his candle for use in the unknown winze, he slowly
groped his way through utter darkness, and finally reached what he
believed to be the end of the drift. Now he lighted his candle, and
for a moment his unaccustomed eyes ached from the glare of its flame.
He was, as he had thought, at the lower opening of the narrow passage,
and, as he noted its steep upward slope, he was agitated by
conflicting hopes and fears. It might lead to liberty, but there was
an equal chance that in it he should miserably perish.
At the very outset he was confronted by a condition that was not only
disappointing, but exerted a most depressing influence. There was no
draught, such as he had believed would issue from the winze. In vain
did he hold up a wetted finger, in vain watch for the slightest
flicker in the flame of his candle. The air was as stagnant as that of
a dungeon. And yet there certainly had been a decided current at that
very place only a few hours before. Puzzled and disheartened, he was
still determined to press forward, and, stooping low, he entered the
passage.
It almost immediately became so contracted that he was compelled to
creep on hands and knees, by which method he slowly and painfully
overcame foot after foot of the ascent. A little later he was forcing
his way with infinite labor, an inch at a time, through a space so
narrow that he was squeezed almost to breathlessness. He was also
bathed in perspiration, and was obliged to recruit his strength by
frequent halts.
At length his candle, which had burned low, was about to expire. With
despairing eyes he watched its last flickering flame, feeling only the
terror of impending darkness, and heedless of the fact that it was
burning his hand. With the quenching of its final spark he resigned
himself to his fate. He had fought his best, but the odds against him
were too heavy, and now his strength was exhausted. Closing his eyes,
and resting his head wearily on his folded arms, he prepared for the
oblivion that he prayed might come speedily.
Lying thus, and careless of the passage of time, he was visited by
pleasant dreams, in which were mingled happy voices, laughter, and
singing. He rested on a couch of roses, and cool breezes fanned his
fevered brow. He was free as air itself and surrounded by illimitable
space.
All at once he became conscious that he was not dreaming, but was wide
awake and staring with incredulous eyes at a glimmer of light, so
wellnigh imperceptible that only by passing a hand before his face and
so shutting it out for an instant could he be certain of its
existence. At the same time an unmistakable draught of air was finding
its way to him, and a voice as of an angel came to his ears faintly
but distinctly with the snatch of a gay song.
With hot blood surging to his brain, the poor fellow tried to call
out, but the words died in his parched throat, and he could only emit
a husky whisper. Then he struggled forward, and found himself in a
larger space that widened rapidly until he was able to sit up and move
his arms with freedom.
He had reached the end of the passage; for, above his head, he could
feel only a smooth surface of rock. The singing had ceased, the ray of
light had faded into darkness, and the draught of air was no longer
felt. But Peveril had noted the aperture by which it had come, and
could now thrust his hand through this into a vacant space beyond.
It seemed to him that the rock above his head was but a slab of no
great thickness, and he tried to lift it. For some minutes he could
not succeed, but finally he secured a purchase, got his shoulders
directly beneath it, and, with a mighty upward heave, moved it
slightly from the bed in which it had lain for centuries.
With another powerful effort it was lifted the fraction of an inch,
and, though it immediately settled back in place, the prisoner knew
that the time of his deliverance had come. He could not raise the
great slab bodily, but with wedges he could hold the gain of each
upward lift. His first aids of this kind were the copper knives that
he had brought with him. Then, by a dim light that came through the
crevice thus opened, he used his pick to break off fragments of rock,
which were slipped under the slab.
It was thus raised and supported an inch at a time, until at length
an opening nearly two feet in width was presented. The moment this was
effected Peveril drew himself through it, and, with a great sigh of
thankfulness for his marvellous escape, lay for some minutes
recovering breath after his tremendous exertions and studying his new
surroundings.
Although the small amount of light greeting his eyes as he lifted the
rock had shown him that he was not to emerge into the open air, he
could not help a feeling of disappointment at finding himself still
underground. To be sure, he was in a spacious chamber or cavern, he
could not yet tell which, illumined by a faintly diffused light that
gave promise of some connection with the outer world; but he feared
this might prove to be another unscalable shaft, in which case he
would be no better off than before--in fact, he might find himself
worse off, for he was desperately thirsty and could see no sign of
water.
"It would be pretty hard lines if I should be compelled to return to
my old well for a drink," he said to himself.
As soon as he had recovered breath, Peveril rose to his feet and began
to walk slowly towards that part of the cavern where the light seemed
brightest. As he went he looked eagerly on all sides for some trace of
the singer whose voice had inspired him with a new hope at the moment
of his blackest despair, but no person was to be seen or heard.
At the same time he found abundant proof that human beings had
recently visited that place, and would doubtless soon do so again.
This was in the shape of boxes, bales, and casks piled against the
walls on both sides of the passage. For a moment Peveril was greatly
puzzled by these; then, as he recalled Joe Pintaud's conversation
regarding smugglers, he concluded that he had stumbled across a depot
of goods belonging to those free-traders of the great lake.
"In which case," he said to himself, "I shall surely be out of here
within a few minutes; for an entrance for smugglers must mean an exit
for prisoners."
This was a sound theory, but, like a great many other theories, one
that proved faulty upon practical application, as our young friend
discovered a few minutes later.
Directly beyond the packages of goods he came upon a small derrick,
set firmly into the solid rock at both top and bottom. It had a
substantial block-and-fall attachment, and was swung inward. At this
point also a heavy tarpaulin, reaching from floor to ceiling, was hung
completely across the cavern.
Cautiously raising one corner of this, Peveril was blinded by such a
flood of light that for a moment he was completely dazzled. As his
vision was gradually restored he found himself on the brink of a
precipice and gazing out over a boundless expanse of water--in fact,
over the great lake itself. A narrow ledge projected a little beyond
the curtain that he had lifted, and as he hesitatingly stepped out
upon it he also instinctively grasped a small cedar that grew from it
to steady himself while he looked down.
The descent was sheer for twenty feet, and so smooth as not to afford
a single foothold along its entire face. From the rippling water at
its base rose a jagged ledge of black rocks, which Peveril recognized
the moment his eyes fell upon them.
"Of all mysteries this is the most inexplicable!" he cried; "and yet
it surely is the very place."
As he spoke he turned to look at the curtain which he had let fall
behind him, and very nearly tumbled from the ledge in amazement at
what he saw. Instead of the sheet of dingy canvas that he expected, he
was confronted by a sheer wall of cliff, stained the same rusty red as
that extending for miles on either side, and apparently not differing
from it in any particular. He was compelled to reach out his hand and
touch it before he could dispel the illusion and convince himself that
only a sheet of painted canvas separated him from the cavern he had
just left.
"It is one of the very cleverest things in the way of a hiding-place I
ever heard of," he said, half aloud; "and now I understand the
disappearance of that girl. But where on earth did she come from? How
did she get here? and where did she go to? Could it have been she whom
I heard singing a little while ago? If so, where is she now? Not in
the cavern. That I'll swear to."
Peveril might have speculated at much greater length concerning this
mystery had not the sight of water that he could not reach so
aggravated his thirst that for the moment he could think of little
else. All at once he hit upon a plan, and two minutes later had drawn
aside the curtain, swung out the little derrick, and was letting
himself down towards the ledge by means of its tackle.
Lying flat on the rough rocks, he drank and drank of the delicious
water, lifting his head for breath or to gaze ecstatically about him,
and then thrusting it again into the cool flood for the pleasure of
feeling the water on his hot cheeks.
At length a slight sound caused him to turn quickly and look upward.
To his dismay and astonishment the tackle by which he had lowered
himself had disappeared. Unless he could make up his mind to swim for
miles through water of icy coldness, he was as truly a prisoner on
that ledge of rock as ever he had been in the underground depths from
which he had so recently escaped.