Oneotah set them the example, crawling through the aperture, and they followed her. After proceeding a short distance on their hands and knees, beside the brook (they were not obliged to go in the water, as the stream had worn quite a passage in its long work of ages), they emerged into a spacious and lofty apartment, and found the Prophet awaiting them, holding a flaming torch in his hand.
Its light dimly illuminated the spacious cavern. It was impossible to form any estimate of its size by the light afforded by a single torch. They were in a realm of shadows. Jagged rocks projected upon every side, and an impenetrable gloom was above their heads. The murky air was oppressive to the lungs, and strange murmurs, like the moaning of prisoned spirits, fell upon the ear.
The boys shivered. It appeared to them as if they had entered a huge tomb. Cute’s teeth rattled in his head.
“Oh! of all the dismal places!” he muttered.
“Keep up your courage!” urged Percy.
“I’m tryin’ to—but I never felt so flunky in all my life. I don’t want to play hide-and-seek with red goblins. Ough! it’s awful chilly here.”
The torchlight made fantastical shadows in the gloom, and it required no great stretch of imagination to fancy that a host of grim goblins surrounded them.
The Prophet stuck his torch in a fissure of the rocky wall.
“Fear nothing,” he said. “No harm will befall you. Oneotah and I must not be present when the spirits appear. The White Spirit will obey your bidding. Stand firm—be not appalled at any thing you see. If your father is dead, his spirit will be shown to you.”
The Prophet glided away in the gloom, followed by Oneotah. Cute clung convulsively to Percy’s arm.