CHAPTER VIII.
ARCHIE LEARNS SOMETHING.
If Don Carlos had only known where his missing guest was all this while, and what he was doing, and what he was seeing, he would have had good cause for alarm. Archie was not at home, as Frank fondly hoped, nor was he outside the rancho. He was in a worse predicament than he had ever been in before, and was learning some things about Don Carlos and his house that greatly astonished him.
We said that the last time Frank saw him, he was standing before a large oil-painting in the room where the Spaniard had left them. It was a life-size picture of an Indian warrior; and so well was it executed that, as Archie stood looking at it, he almost expected to see the savage open his lips to give the war-whoop, and then draw the bow which he carried in his hand, and discharge an arrow at him.
“The man who painted that was an artist, and understood his business,” said Archie, to himself. “I have seen lots of those fellows, and that’s just the way they look.”
Something in the picture, which he had not before noticed, caught his eye at this moment, and interrupted the thread of his soliloquy. The handle of the warrior’s hunting-knife, which he wore in his belt, was rounded off into a knob at the end, and Archie was sure that it stood out a little way from the canvas. He leaned forward and looked at it more closely, and sure enough it was a wooden button, which fitted into the end of the handle of the knife, and not a painted one. He stepped up and examined it with his fingers, and to his surprise it yielded to his touch.
“Now I’d like to know what this means,” thought he, pressing the knob harder than before. “This thing must be attached to a spring, because it comes back when I let go of it. Well—by—gracious!”
It was very seldom indeed that Archie used any slang words, but sometimes, when he was greatly excited or astonished, he did like other boys—forgot all the good resolutions he had made regarding this bad habit. It was no wonder that he was amazed now, for the painting began to move as if it had been suddenly endowed with life. It opened before him like a door, swinging swiftly back on a pair of invisible hinges, and revealing a narrow, winding stairway which seemed to run down into a cellar beneath the outer wall. Archie stood like a wooden boy for a few seconds, his neck outstretched, his eyes dilating and trying to pierce through the thick darkness which enveloped the stairs, and then, scarcely knowing what he was about, he stepped cautiously into the passage. An instant afterward he would have given every thing he possessed, or ever expected to possess, if he had been a little more prudent; but then it was too late. The painting swung back to its place as swiftly and noiselessly as it had opened, and the smooth click of a spring-lock told Archie that he was a prisoner. He did not intend to remain one long, however. He understood the mystery of that secret door, and it would not be many seconds before he would get out again. Perhaps Frank would now be willing to look up from his book long enough to hear him tell of this wonderful discovery he had made; and perhaps, too, he would be ready to believe that he had some foundation for his suspicions.
Talking thus to himself, Archie groped his way back to the painting (for now that the opening was closed the passage was as dark as midnight), and began to pass his hands over it, searching hurriedly for the concealed spring. He now found that the back of the picture was formed of heavy oak planks, nearly a foot in thickness; or, to make the matter clearer, the whole contrivance was simply a ponderous door, with the painting spread over one side of it to conceal it. But where was the spring? Archie ran his fingers over every inch of the door, from top to bottom, but could not find it. He examined every one of the planks separately, and finally turned his attention to the huge blocks of stone which formed the walls, in the hope that he might find the spring imbedded in one of them. Five minutes—ten minutes—a quarter of an hour were passed in this way, and then Archie sank down upon the floor, all in a heap, panting and sweating as though he had been engaged in the most violent exercise. His face was very pale, his hands trembled as though he were suffering from an attack of the ague, and one to have seen him at that moment would have believed that he was almost overcome with fear. His words, however, did not indicate the fact.
“Now here’s fun,” said he, with a desperate attempt to keep up his courage; “here’s sport—here’s joy by the wagon-load. I am cornered easy enough, and it serves me just right for prying about where I had no business. What will the Don say when he comes back and finds me gone?”