Marie Josephine reached down to the right into the dark, yawning, square hole and lifted out a small iron lanthorn which rested on a ledge just underneath the stone panel. Then she struck the flint against the tinder, opened the lanthorn’s squeaky little lid, and lit the wick. A bright blue flame shot up at once, and, when she had shut the wee door, settled to a steady flame. She turned around and began to descend backward, resting the lanthorn on each step as she went down. When she had gone down several steps, she called softly to the dog, and he followed, facing her, putting one strong, slender foot in front of the other, with slow, unerring precision.
It was a long, slow descent, and as they went farther and farther into the musty gloom, a chill closeness enveloped them. Finally they reached the last step and found themselves on another stone floor, more uneven than the floor above, one that seemed to hold the echoes of the ages.
It was a large room into which they had come and there was the grey glimmer of rooms beyond. The walls were rough hewn, and trickles of water faintly edged their way through the massive stones. There was an astonishing air of homelikeness about the strange place. A huge red rug hung against one side of the wall, and above a great carved chest at the other end was a tapestry of the crusaders. The rug, though old, was still in good condition. It had been hung there by a Saint Frère just three generations back, but the tapestry had been there much longer, so long that it seemed a part of the ancient place. Near the ladderlike stairs was a long stone shelf and it shone and gleamed in the light from the lanthorn.
Marie Josephine sat down on the chest and leaned her head against the rough wall. The whole adventure of coming to the secret cellar was enthralling, but the most wonderful part of it was sitting there and thinking of Lisle Saint Frère, her oldest ancestor, he who had laid the first stone of this ancient place and whose one thought had been always to help others and to serve the right. As she sat there she felt the tears smarting in her eyes. She was thinking of her grandfather too. She fancied that she could see him walking up and down, a slight figure in his black velvet breeches and long coat, the brilliants shining on his pointed shoes, his delicate hands clasped together, the soft frills of lace falling over them. Yet it was not so much of him that she was thinking as of what he had said to her:
“It all began so long ago. This house is not like other houses, Marie. You know that well; all of you do. It is not just an old house like that of your Great-aunt Hortense, or of the De Soignés, or of others of our friends. This house is ancient, Marie. It is medieval! It was standing here when Lisle Saint Frère, your oldest ancestor, was brought home mortally wounded, and that is farther back than even your fancy can take you, little one—almost as long ago as the time of Charlemagne and the Song of Roland! It was built in the time of knights at arms. It was the idea of that first Lisle Saint Frère, and it was he who laid its first stone, he who became the bravest knight of his time in all France. He was the best one of us that ever lived. There has never been another who was so good.”
“Except you, grandfather,” she had said stoutly, and as she sat there in the dim stillness, she remembered that his face had lightened at her words. But he had answered her earnestly:
“I am poor indeed in the little I have done for my brother man, Marie. I have dreamed—just dreamed. I have wanted to help, but I have not known how. In each generation one of us has wanted to help, has been weighed down by the misery of those upon our lands. There is a time coming, mark me well, Marie, when the old days shall be at an end, when new ways of freedom shall sweep the old régime away. You will live to see that day. Be strong, Marie. There is not a young lamb at Pigeon Valley that you do not love. There is not a human being whom you could not love. You will see beyond the tinsel and the satin. You are the truest descendant of Lisle Saint Frère.”
She had protested, “Lisle is the truest, grandfather!”
He had answered: “Lisle is too proud. I have brought you to this secret cellar which has sheltered your ancestors in peril. No one has ever known of it except one of our family in every generation and one other who is outside the family. Keep it a secret unless the time should come when by disclosing it you can help some one in need. Meanwhile, be glad that you are the one of this generation to know!”
She began to be sleepy as she sat on the chest, thinking of all that her grandfather had told her, wondering who the “other one” could be. She jumped up, called Flambeau, and slowly and carefully they made their way up the steep, ladderlike stairs. A grey gleam of light greeted them through the open secret panel. Flambeau scrambled up on to the cellar floor after Marie Josephine and watched her, his nose quivering with interest, as she shut the panel.