“Very well,” said Fred, rather unwillingly. “Give me the lanthorn to hold.”
The light was drawn out of the bucket, and Scarlett prepared to descend; but this proved it longer task than was expected, for it was first necessary to drag out several pieces of broken branch.
This being done, Scarlett looked up at his companion, who let himself down without hesitation, and they stood together with the daylight above them, and the narrow lugged stone passage stretching away to right and left.
“Which way shall we go first?” asked Scarlett.
“This way,” cried Fred, and his voice sounded so strange and hollow, that as he stood there up to his knees in water, which glimmered and shimmered on the black surface, he hesitated and wished that he had not agreed to go.
For there before them lay a narrow path of light, ending in quite a sharp point, and seeming to point to the end of their journey.
They both told themselves that they were not likely to meet anything that would do them harm, but, all the same, neither of them could help wondering whether there would be any unpleasant kind of fish in the depths as they neared the lake. That word depth, too, troubled them. It was easy enough to wade now, but suppose it should grow deeper suddenly, and they should step into some horrible hole. Suppose—
“Look here,” cried Fred, suddenly, as they waded slowly on, listening to the whisper and splash of the water, “I wish you’d be quiet with your suppose this, and suppose that. You don’t want to frighten me, do you?”
“Why, I never spoke,” cried Scar.
“Then you must have been thinking aloud, for it seemed to me as if you were saying things on purpose to scare me.”