"For the lands sakes! Let's get out in the fresh air," Rebecca exclaimed as she groped her way toward the stairs. "You keep a-holt o' me, Phœbe. That's right. We'll get out o' here an' make rabbit tracks fer home, I tell ye. We can come back later for our duds when that mis'able specimen is sober fer awhile again."
Slowly the two made their way down the winding stairs to the lower hall, where, after much fumbling, they found the door handle and lock.
As they emerged from the prison that had so long confined them, a cool morning zephyr swept their faces, bringing with it once more the well-known voice of distant chanticleer.
They walked across the springing turf a few yards and were then able to make out the looming black mass of some building beyond the end of the air-ship.
"Goodness!" Rebecca whispered. "This ain't Peltonville, Phœbe. There ain't a house in the town as high as that, 'less it's the meetin'-house, an' 'tain't the right shape fer that."
They advanced stealthily toward the newly discovered building, in which not a single light was to be seen.
"In good sooth," Phœbe exclaimed, putting one hand on her sister's arm, "it hath an air of witchcraft! Dost not feel cold chills in thee, Rebecca?"
Rebecca stopped short, stiff with amazement.
"What's come over ye?" she asked, trying to peer into her sister's face. "Whatever makes ye talk like that, child?"
Phœbe laughed nervously and, taking her sister's arm, pressed close up to her.