I crawled through a long tunnel not three feet high. I was then only a few yards behind Manack. Some trick of the mine brought a fresh wind blowing up this tunnel and with it came the sound of the sea. The tunnel emerged into a narrow gallery. It was so narrow that at times I had to edge along it sideways. A part of the roof had come away in one place. And when I had scrambled over the fall, black darkness faced me. I switched on my torch and hurried after Manack. The tunnel climbed steadily, twisting and turning. There was no light ahead. All I had was the red glow from between my fingers. Here and there cross-cuts shot off at right angles. I kept on, going faster, becoming less cautious of the ground underfoot. I had to catch up with Manack.
Then suddenly the gallery ended. It was a fall. A bad one by the look of it. I shone my torch into the hole in the ceiling, blinking in the sudden glare of the naked beam. There seemed to be a dark hole. I scrambled up, thrusting myself right into the jaws of the fallen roof. But there was no opening. It had only been a shadow etching the face of the rock black. There was no way on along that gallery. A rock gave beneath my weight and I slid down the face of the fall, dropping my torch and skinning my hands.
In the sudden darkness I searched feverishly for my torch. All my hands encountered were cold rock and thick, clinging mud. God, I mustn't lose my torch. Supposing the bulb had broken. Why hadn't I brought a miner's lamp? A miner's lamp would last longer than a torch. It couldn't get broken. I knelt down on the floor, cursing, almost crying, whilst my hands searched frantically. Then I remembered my matches. Of course, I'd got my matches. Hell, what was I panicking for? I got a grip of myself. I felt the conscious power of my will loose the tension of my nerves. I realised that I was practically sobbing for breath as I put my hand in my jacket pocket. The matches rattled comfortingly in the box.
I struck one. The little yellow flare of light was like a beacon of safety. The torch had rolled farther down the gallery than the spot at which I had been searching. Its chromium-plated case twinkled as though hugging itself with laughter. I picked it up and thrust forward the switch. The beam shone out as bright as ever. I gave a gasp of relief.
Then I turned in sudden renewed fear and hurried back down that twisting, sloping gallery. I had to find Manack. I didn't know my way out. I knew I couldn't remember the twists and turns I'd come. I didn't even know what part of the mine I was in. All I knew was that I was in the old workings. I might wander here for days. Surely Manack would wait for me? He'd waited each time before. Or had I been wrong? Perhaps he hadn't any idea I was behind him. I rammed my head against a buttress of rock and cried out with the blinding pain. But I didn't stop. I peered up each narrow cleft that led off the gallery I was in. Some were cross-cuts. Others were just clefts that finished in nothing. In none of them did I catch sight of the friendly glow of Manack's lamp. I came to a fork. I couldn't remember it. I took the right-hand gallery. Before I'd gone twenty paces I was certain I hadn't come that way. I went back and tried the left. Again I was certain it wasn't the one I had come down. I stopped then. I was panting heavily. I must get a grip on myself. I had been wrong about Manack. He hadn't been waiting for me. It was all imagination. Why the hell had I come? And then a new thought struck me. Suppose Manack had known I was following him? Suppose he had led me up into these old workings on purpose? What a way to finish a man! What a perfect way to kill me — to lead me up here into this rabbit warren and then abandon me! Those stories I'd heard of the Roman catacombs. I remembered the priest who had taken me over the Santo Calisto — thirty-nine miles of underground passages, tier on tier of them, and all along the walls the niches where Rome's Christians had been buried in the early days of the persecution. I could see that priest, the lighted taper shining on his dark, foreign face and upstarting, wiry hair, as he backed away from us down gallery after gallery. He had told us that there were still galleries the monks had not explored, that Germans seeking escape after the fall of Rome had forced their way into the catacombs and never come out. That priest had scared me. And when at the top I had asked what nationality he was, for he did not speak with an Italian accent, he had smiled and said German.
I cursed out loud. I must stop myself thinking of things like that. I must get a grip on myself. I took a deep breath and held it, stopping my panting. Manack must be about here somewhere. I called him by name. I shouted at the top of my voice. But all that happened was that the sound of my voice came back to me as a hollow, muffled echo. I tried again. Again I heard my voice come whispering back along the galleries long after I had ceased to call. And then something like a laugh sounded. But it was just a trick of my imagination. It came again, a rustling, cackling noise. With it came a draught of air. Probably it was the sound of the sea wandering along the galleries.
The sea! I pulled myself together then and switched off my torch. I had to conserve the battery. No use wasting it whilst I stood still, thinking. And I must think. I must reason this out. I mustn't panic. I was a miner, not a kid going underground for the first time.
I turned about in the darkness, searching for the direction of that faint breath of air that stirred along the gallery. It took me back towards the fall of rock. I followed it into a cross-cut. The cross-cut was low. I had to crawl through on hands and knees. The breeze was stronger in this narrow tunnel. I could feel it cool on my face. It smelt dank and salt. The tunnel opened out again and then descended steeply. Soon I was scrambling over fallen rock down an almost vertical funnel with water pouring between my legs, soaking me to the waist. It levelled out again I could hear the sea now. The feint gurgle and lap of water came to me on the breeze which was strong and fresh.
Then suddenly the gallery ended. It wasn't a fall of rock that faced me. It was just empty space. I raked that space with the beam of my torch. It was a great cavern, whether natural or not I don't know. The sea slopped about in the bottom of it. I thought I could dimly see the black surface of the water on the edge of my torch's visibility.
There was no exit that way. The sides of the cavern fell away sheer. Even if I could have got down, there was no indication that there was a way out below. Water cascaded in little falls down the smooth, weed-grown rock. I scrambled back then, up the funnel and along the tunnel and back to the gallery from which I had started.