“And these rough stairs—where do they lead?”
“Down into the cabin, sor, where there’s a little door out into the forest. Sure and the artful baste who made it little thought he was going to find us as purty a hiding-place as was ever made. There it is, sor, all ready for us if we hear annyone coming. If we do, down we go and twirl the lid of the pot back over our heads, and then we can either go or shtay.”
“Can you move the cover when you are down?”
“Aisily, sor. I’ve thried it. Now, then, what do ye say to that?”
Humphrey’s answer was to hold out his hand and wring that of his companion.
There was an ample supply of food in the place for a week, and water and wine. Dinny’s ideas respecting their safety seemed to be quite correct, for though voices were heard at a distance, no one approached the place. They had the hidden subterranean tomb-like chamber into which they could retreat; and on the second night, while Dinny was watching and Humphrey, utterly worn-out, was sleeping feverishly and trying to forget the troubles and disappointments of his failure, there was a faint rustling noise heard, and directly after his name was whispered softly from above.
“Murther!” cried Dinny, unable to contain himself as he sprang up.
His exclamation and the noise he made brought Humphrey from his couch, alert, and ready for any struggle.
“What is it?” he said.
“Sure, sor, something freckened me. A mouse, I think.”