“My father does not like the king,” said Fred, sharply.
“And my father does,” cried Scarlett, with a flash of the eye.
“Oh, never mind about that now,” said Fred, looking at his old companion in a troubled manner. “What has it got to do with us? What shall we do now?”
“Go back,” replied Scarlett; “for we cannot get any farther along here. I say, Fred, it does not seem such a terrible place now you are used to it, does it?”
“Terrible!” cried Fred, stoutly. “Why, I like it. Don’t, pray don’t, tell anybody about it, and we can have fine games here. It’s ever so much better than a cave, and we can smuggle all sorts of things up here. I mean up there in that room.”
“Yes, if I don’t tell my father about it.”
“Oh, don’t tell him yet! not till we’re tired of it. Then I don’t mind.”
Scarlett made no reply, but holding his candle above his head, went out of the vault, stopping afterwards while Fred drew to the door. Then, with the ease begotten of use, they went along the tunnel, up the steps to the chamber, and then along the passages to the great staircase, lying down and rolling themselves over, and emerging to listen intently before closing the opening, and hurrying to Scarlett’s room for another wash and clearance of the cobwebs and dust.
This done, they hurried out, full of eagerness to run down to the side of the great lake, where they fully expected to find the opening at once.
Failing in this, they stopped by a sandy bank, and, taking a piece of stick, Fred set to work to sketch on the sand a plan of their wanderings.