“Steps?” cried Briscoe, as he heard the tap, tap of the steel plate covering the butt of Brace’s gun as he felt his way.
“And so it is away here to the right: steps going down into black darkness. I know! down to the great tank, into which the water falls from ever so high up.”
“Then you stop, young fellow,” cried Briscoe hoarsely, “or you’ll be falling too from ever so high up, and I daresay that’s a big stone cistern half a mile deep, and full of water-snakes and polligoblins.”
“Listen,” said Brace; “I’m going to feed them. Be quiet, everybody,” he added, for the passage behind was now being filled up, the captain and Sir Humphrey in front.
“What are you going to do now, sir?” asked Lynton.
“Here’s a great mass of stone that seems to have fallen down from the roof close to my feet. Hold my gun.”
He passed his piece to the mate, who could faintly make out the speaker’s shape by the feeble light which came from beyond him to the left.
“Heavy,” panted Brace, “Hah!”
He raised the stone right above his head and heaved it from him, the expiration of his breath being plainly heard by the listeners in the painful silence which followed for a couple of seconds. Then there were sparks emitted from somewhere below, where the stone struck with a crash and bounded off into space.
The crash was echoed, and seemed to reverberate round and round some great vault, and then came directly after a dull, solemn, weird-sounding plosh! evidently not many feet below where they were standing.