The men finish’d their drink, and saunter’d out. I crept from under the counter, and look’d at her.
“Father’ll kill me for this!”
“Then you shall say—Is it forward or back I must go?”
“Neither.” She pull’d up a trap close beside her feet, and pointed out a ladder leading down to the darkness. “The courts are full of troopers,” she added.
“The cellar?”
She nodded.
“Quick! There’s a door at the far end. It leads to the crypt of St. John’s Chapel. You’ll find the key beside it, and a lantern. Here is flint and steel.” She reach’d them down from a shelf beside her. “Crouch down, or they’ll spy you through the window. From the crypt a passage takes you to the governor’s house. How to escape then, God knows! ’Tis the best I can think on.”
I thank’d her, and began to step down the ladder. She stood for a moment to watch, leaving the trap open for better light. Between the avenue of casks and bins I stumbled toward the door and lantern that were just to be discern’d at the far end of the cellar. As I struck steel on flint, I heard the trap close: and since then have never set eyes on that kind-hearted girl.
The lantern lit, I took the key and fitted it to the lock. It turned noisily, and a cold whiff of air struck my face. Gazing round this new chamber, I saw two lines of squat pillars, supporting a low arch’d roof. ’Twas the crypt beneath the chapel, and smelt vilely. A green moisture trickled down the pillars, and dripp’d on the tombs beneath them.
At the end of this dreary place was a broken door, consisting only of a plank or two, that I easily pull’d away: and beyond, a narrow passage, over which I heard the tread of troopers plainly, as they pac’d to and fro; also the muffled note of the clock, sounding seven.