“That, sir; listen. I can hear where it seems to be rushing in ever so far away.”
“Yes, I can hear it now,” I said.
“Forward, then,” said my uncle, and with the water once more but little above our knees we waded steadily on after the light which Cross bore breast-high.
“Cheer up, Pete,” I said; “we must be getting on now. Why, if it came to the worst we could turn back.”
“Never find the way, sir,” he said bitterly, and then he uttered a yell, closely following upon a sharp ejaculation from the carpenter, who suddenly placed his foot in some cavity of the smooth floor, fell forward with an echoing splash, and the next moment the lanthorn disappeared beneath the gleaming surface, leaving us in utter darkness.
Wash, wash, ripple, ripple went the water, and the cries whispered away as fading echoes, and then Pete’s voice rose in a piteous wail.
“I knowed it, I knowed it,” he said. “We shall never see the light again. Oh, help, Master Nat, help! Here’s one of them water-conders got me by the leg to pull me down.”
A cry that went to my heart and sent a shudder through every nerve, for the darkness seemed so thick that it might be felt.