“Samson!” exclaimed Fred, as he dashed to the opening.
“I’m all right, sir, so far,” said the rough fellow, looking up with a grim smile on his face. “That’s the worst of being a coward and afraid. It makes you rush at things, instead of taking ’em coolly. Here, let me help you down.”
“I can manage,” replied Fred, quietly, as he felt annoyed with himself. “Better draw your sword.”
“No, sir,” said Samson, coolly; “if I do they’ll think I’m afraid; and besides, there’s no room to give it a good swing for a cut, and the point’s blunt since I used it for digging up potatoes.”
“No, no; I can get down,” said Fred, quickly, as Samson once more offered his help, and the next moment he was also standing in the old passage, peering before him, and listening.
All was as silent as the grave, and a chilly feeling of dread came over the lad, as he wondered whether poor Nat had, after all, only crawled in there to die, just as some unfortunate wounded creature seeks a hole to be at rest.
“What nonsense! when he took the food we put there,” he muttered the next moment.
“What say, sir? Shall I strike a light?”
Samson did not wait for an answer to his first question before propounding the second.
“Yes. Go a few steps forward out of the light,” whispered Fred, “and then we are not likely to be heard.”