Hitt did not answer. But, bidding Don Jorge follow, he sought the fallen entrance to the old fortress, and plunged into the dark passage that led off from it into the thick gloom. Groping his way down a long, damp corridor, he came to a point where three narrower, brick-lined tunnels branched off, one of them dipping into the earth at a sharp angle. He struck a match, and then started down this, followed by the wondering Don Jorge.
A thousand bats, hideous denizens of these black tunnels, flouted their faces and disputed their progress. Don Jorge slapped wildly at them, and cursed low. Hitt took up a long club and struck savagely about him. On they stumbled, until the match flickered out, and they were left in Stygian blackness, 254 with the imps of darkness whirring madly about them. Hitt struck another match, and plunged ahead.
At length they found the way blocked by a mass of rubbish which had fallen from the roof. Hitt studied it for a moment, then climbed upon it and, by the aid of the feeble light from his matches, peered into the foul blackness beyond.
“Come,” he said, preparing to proceed.
“Na, amigo! Not I!” exclaimed Don Jorge. His Latin soul had revolted.
“Then wait for me here,” said Hitt, pushing himself through the narrow aperture at the top of the rubbish, and fighting the horde of terrified bats.
A few minutes later he returned, covered with slime, and scratched and bleeding. “All right,” he muttered. “Now let’s get out of this miserable hole!”
Out in the sunlight once more, Hitt sought to remove the stains from his clothes, meanwhile bidding Don Jorge attend well to his words.
“You swim, eh?”
“Yes.”