“It is like a pig—that one,” said Greta, rubbing her wrists mournfully.
The opened door revealed the gloom of the dank rooms and twisting staircase, then fell to behind them with a clatter.
Greta gave a little scream, and caught her sister's dress.
“It is dark,” she gasped; “O Chris! it is dark!”
Christian groped for the bottom stair, and Greta felt her arm shaking.
“Suppose there is a man to keep guard! O Chris! suppose there are bats!”
“You are a baby!” Christian answered in a trembling voice. “You had better go home!”
Greta choked a little in the dark.
“I am—not—going home, but I'm afraid of bats. O Chris! aren't you afraid?”
“Yes,” said Christian, “but I'm going to have the pictures.”