“And that is the port,” continued Gertrude, holding up the light, to point to the other side of the cellar.
“Ha!” ejaculated the old man, with all the enjoyment of a connoisseur, as he again carefully lifted a bottle with its lime-wash mark across the end. “No, no, Mrs Hampton, you must not have it all your own way. Gertie, my dear, if I stand that up I shall spoil it. Would you mind carrying this bottle by the neck?”
“Oh, no; I’ll carry it,” she said hastily, as if eager to get out of the crypt-like place. “I have it. Oh, Bruno, Bruno!” she exclaimed, as another low, deep howl, from apparently close at hand, reached their ears. “You had better take a bottle of the old Burgundy, too, Mr Hampton.”
“Well, yes; perhaps I might as well, Gertie; but I shall use you as a buttress against Mrs Hampton’s wrath.”
“Oh, yes,” cried Gertrude laughingly, “I’ll defend you. That’s the bin—the Chambertin.”
“Prince of wines,” muttered the old man, crossing to the bin his companion had pointed out, while his shadow cast by the candle she held was thrown upon ceiling and wall in a peculiarly grotesque fashion, as if he were the goblin of the cave.
“Now,” he said, as he carefully placed the bottle in the basket, “we shall be all right, even if George comes back. Bless my soul! what’s that?”
For Gertrude uttered a wild shriek, there was a crash, and they were in utter darkness.