Bruce used his hands carefully, half wondering whether the whole event was real. The rough wood scraped his fingers; he was sure that he was neither dreaming nor dying.
"Stop!"
There was a slight jolt at the end of the coffin. Reaching out cautiously, Bruce found that the end of the box was open. The air seemed clear but damp.
"Crawl forward — carefully."
His hands were in dirt beyond the coffin. On hands and knees, Bruce emerged into solid earth. He was in a damp, moldy tunnel — a small passage that was barely large enough for his body. It twisted to the right.
He made the turn with difficulty.
The hole became larger as he moved upward. The angle became greater as he continued. His hands slipped as he clutched at the sides of the cramped tunnel.
Then his wrists were seized, and he was drawn bodily upward. He was clear of the hole; his knees had reached the surface. The hands released his wrists. He fell forward on solid ground!
Bruce uttered a long sigh. His limbs were aching; his ankles and wrists were sore from the ropes that had bound them. But his mind was freed of torment. He managed to roll on his back. He looked above him, and through the Stygian gloom he fancied he saw a white ceiling above.
He was in the mausoleum!