Grate, grate, scratch, came a strange sound.
“Do you hear what I say?” cried Gwyn, excitedly.
“I can’t, I can’t—there isn’t room.”
“Then give it to me,” said Gwyn, fiercely, from where he stood a few yards now in advance of his companion. “How am I to see what I’m doing?—and I know you’ll have it in the water directly.”
“Don’t I tell you I can’t?” cried Joe, wildly. “Can’t you see there isn’t room? I’m holding it close up to the roof now.” And at a glance Gwyn saw that the roof was so low where they were that the gallery was nearly filled by the water.
“Oh, hang the dog!” cried Gwyn, desperately. “Quiet, sir! Come back!” for with the water steadily deepening it seemed madness to let the animal lure them on into what appeared to be certain death.
“Yes, yes, come back,” panted Joe; “it’s horrible. Here, Grip, Grip, Grip! Here, here, here!”
But the dog only whined and swam on, and then began to beat the water wildly as if he were drowning, for in his excitement and dread, Gwyn had now begun to haul upon the leash, dragging the dog partly under water in his efforts to get hold of its collar.
It was no easy task; for as the dog rose again, it was evidently frightened by its immersion beneath the surface, and began barking, whining, and struggling to escape from its master’s grasp.
“What is it? What are you doing?” cried Joe, as he held the light close to the roof.