“Silly boy!” said his companion, “how thoroughly Irish you are at heart—joy, tears, sunshine and fun, but, deep under all, a smouldering superstition.”
“Just like the fires,” added Rory, “that roll so far beneath us. But you know, Ray,”—in their most affectionate and friendly moods Ralph had come to be “Ray” to Rory, and Rory “Row” to Ralph—“you know, Ray, that the silence and gloom of this eerie place are enough to make any one superstitious—any one, that is, whose soul isn’t solid matter-of-fact.”
“Well, it is silent. But I say, Row—”
“Well, Ray?”
“Suppose we try to break it with a song? I daresay they have never heard much singing down here.”
“Who?” cried Rory, staring fearfully into the darkness.
“Oh!” said Ralph, carelessly, “I didn’t mean any one in particular. Come, what shall we sing—‘The wearing o’ the green’?”
“No, Ray, no; that were far too melancholic, though I grant it is a lovely melody.”
“Well, something Scotch, and stirring. The echoes of this cavern must be wonderful.”
They were, indeed; and when Rory started off into that world-known but ever-popular song, “Auld lang syne,” and Ralph chimed with deep and sonorous bass, the effect was really grand and beautiful, for a thousand voices seemed to fill the cavern. They heard the song even in the car of the balloon, and it caused Allan to remark, smilingly, for they had not yet been long gone, “Ralph and boy Rory seem to be enjoying themselves; but I trust they won’t be long away.”