“No human being but myself knows. Even Old Manassa there is ignorant of its existence. To my hands alone was intrusted the duty of carrying food to the poor prisoners confined there, who were destined never more to see the light of day.”
“Oh, Clarine, can this be true!” Vivienne cried. “You did but dream it. You sometimes have bad dreams, you know, when you are not well.”
“Ah, child, you will soon know whether it be a dream. Now, listen to me, darling; don’t lose a word I say, for I am about to impart a message from the dead.”
“What? From the dead?”
“Yes, from your dead father. He called me into the library two hours before he went out for the last time alive. He shut the door, took my hand in his, and made me promise that upon your eighteenth birthday I would impart to you a knowledge of the existence of the dungeon, and also give you a paper of written instructions, telling you how to open its great door—a door which can never be unfastened but by one possessing the secret of its complicated springs and bars.”
“But why did my father desire this secret to be divulged to me alone? Why not to my brothers as well?”
“He thought, no doubt, that they might, in some emergency, make bad use of such knowledge. He knew not how headstrong they might become, or how fiery their passions might be when they reached manhood. He had come to abhor the spirit of revenge and murder which pervades our country. I will repeat to you his very words: ‘My daughter’s gentle heart will understand my motives when you say to her from me: Never open that door except in case of great extremity, and never reveal the secret to any living being unless it be to save human life!”
“To what extremity could I ever be driven which would oblige me to open that terrible door? I shudder to think of it, Clarine.”
“Heaven knows, child—we do not. But I believe such a time will come.”
“What makes you think so? What good reason can you give?”