“Like it,” cried Scarlett; “why, it is it!”
“What nonsense! That one was toward the house. This one is toward the lake.”
“Nonsense or no, there’s the old armour in the corner.”
The two lads stood with the lanthorn held up, staring at the heap, and then at the rusty hinged door, and lastly at one another.
“Do you believe in enchantment, Fred?” said Scarlett, at last.
“No, not a bit. Enchantment, and witches, and goblins, and all those sort of things, are nothing but stuff, father says.”
“But isn’t it curious that we should have found ourselves here? It is the same, isn’t it?”
“I think so. Yes, that’s the way into the house,” said Fred, staring along the dark passage. “But I don’t care whether it is or whether it isn’t. My legs are so wet that I mean to get out as soon as I can.”
Scarlett held the lanthorn up again, and had one more good look round. Then, without a word, he turned, descended the steps into the water, and began to wade back.
“Oh, I say, it is wet!” grumbled Fred, as he followed the lanthorn, watching their grotesque shadows on the wall, the flashing of the light on the water, and the glimmering on the damp walls.