The boy glanced into the dungeon; the pale light of the lamp showed that the walls were of rough stone, and that years of dampness had made them a hideous, slimy black. A rat scurried across the floor as the light rays penetrated; there were no windows and no furniture of any sort, not even a stool. In one corner was a heap of foul-looking straw, presumably to be used as a bed.
Ethan hesitated upon the threshold of this den, and the woman laughed.
“What!” she cried. “You don’t seem pleased. Perhaps my lord would like a rug upon the floor and paintings upon the walls.”
“You see what is in store for you,” said Danvers. “And you’ll remain here until you tell me what you have done with the dispatch.”
Then the spy made a sign; the seamen from the schooner pushed the boy roughly into the dungeon. Longsword was about to follow, but Meg prevented him.
“Oh, no,” she cried with her mirthless laugh. “I never have two together. Mischief is apt to be plotted that way. Here is your room, my brave Irelander; it is just next door. You may talk as much as you like. But I’ll give you no chance to join your strength. Oh, no, no.”
Another door was swung open and Longsword stepped into a cell as damp and as unwholesome as Ethan’s. The irons were then taken from their arms and the doors were securely locked; and as they stood staring through the gratings they saw Meg pick up her lamp and prepare to lead the men from the cellar.
“Have you much smuggled goods in the place just now, Meg?” said the spy, looking about.
“Ah, Mr. Danvers, sir, you will have your little joke. The king’s revenue never loses anything through me, as you know.”
Danvers laughed.