“Well, who does?” cried Joe, angrily. “What’s my father going to do without me when he’s ill. Come on. They’ll be finding the way out, and leaving us here.”
“Nay, Master Gwyn wouldn’t do that,” groaned Hardock. “He’d come back for us.”
Gwyn’s pursuit of the dog had done one thing; it had started his companions into action, and they, too, waded with the stream pressing them along, till away in the distance they caught sight of the light Gwyn bore, shining like a faint spark in the darkness or reflected in a pale shimmering ray from the hurrying water.
For how long they neither of them knew, they followed on till Gwyn’s light became stationary; and just then Hardock raised his, and uttered an exclamation.
“I know where we are now,” he cried, as he raised his lanthorn and pointed to one of his white arrows. “It looks different with the place half full of water, but we’re close to that dead end that runs up.”
Just then they heard the barking of the dog.
“And that’s where he has got to,” continued Hardock. “How did he come to think of going there?”
“Ahoy—oy—oy—oy!” came halloaing from Gwyn, who had long been aware from their lights that his companions were following him.
They answered, and dragged their weary way along, for the water still deepened, and in his impatience Gwyn came back to meet them.
“Come along quickly,” he cried; “the dog has gone into that short gallery which rises up. Did you hear him barking?”