Margaret gave no heed to the folly of the words—the confidence in them spurred her to endeavor.
“Come!” she exclaimed. She whirled, and ran swiftly over the rubble, back the way they had come. Her thoughts were chaotic, but through them ran refusal to believe the worst. He—they—Saxe must have received warning—must be safe, somewhere, somehow—must be—must be! May, hard on Margaret’s heels, was sore pressed to keep the pace over the jumble of fragments.
When they had come to the great chamber, Margaret, without pause, turned into the passage on the left. With the same speed, she hurried along this, panting now. May ran just behind. Then, finally, the horror, against which Margaret had hoped, burst full on her. She halted, reeling, a shriek of despair wavering on her palsied lips. A few feet away, down the tunnel’s slope, lay the level black of water, shining gently under the beams of the torch, serene, implacable. May, too, saw and understood, and rested frozen in dumb anguish over this ending of all things.
There are certain calamities so unexpected, so monstrous, that the mind refuses to accept them as fact at first announcement, no matter what the proof. It was so here. The two girls—freshly stirring to the most subtle and the most potent of human emotions, love, come forth in the morning with gladness of heart to meet the men of their choice, gaily eager to learn of an adventure—were now, in a flash, confronted with an inconceivable disaster. They would not accept the fact—they could not. There was, there must be, some hideous mistake, soon to be cleared away. Despite all evidence, those they loved had not been done to death, down there within the abysses of the earth. Somewhere, somehow, they had escaped. They would come forth presently, and then there would be only laughter, where now was terror.
It was this refusal to believe that gave Margaret inspiration to action at last. Of a sudden, she bethought herself of that other entrance to the cavern, concerning which she had spoken to Saxe. On the instant, she again turned, and fled back through the tunnel without a word. May, not understanding, yet still defiant of fate, followed. The time was marvelously short until they were again in the ravine outside the cavern. But Margaret did not pause here—she did not even trouble to cut off the current of her torch, of which the glow showed wanly against the sunlight, as she went running swiftly through the ravine, and out on the little plateau that lay at its mouth. There, she hesitated, but only for a second, her eyes sweeping the undulations of the island while memory struggled for assurance. Certainty flashed on her, and again she leaped forward, May always close beside in the flight. Across the plateau Margaret sped, into a gully that ran toward the shore, up a stiff slope to the crest of a ridge, which was part of the bluff overlooking the lake. The summit was boulder-strewn, a medley of masses lying topsy-turvy. She threaded a way among the rocks, perforce more slowly, yet still with feverish haste. At last, she halted, with a great cry of joy.
“It is here!” she said softly. There was a note of reverent thankfulness in her voice.
May looked, wondering, and saw a small hole amid the rocks at her feet. It was less than a yard in length, and in breadth much narrower. She perceived that it was not quite vertical, though almost. A short way below the surface, its course was hidden in blackness.
Margaret wasted not a moment.
“They’re in there, I know,” she explained, succinctly, to May. “I’m going to show them the way out.”
As a matter of fact, the girl knew nothing as to the fact she stated so authoritatively. She had no least idea as to that part of the cavern on which the chimney gave. Her cousin had pointed it out, and had told her that by it he first made his way within. Beyond that, she knew nothing whatever. Hope dictated her claim to knowledge. She still denied any credence to the final catastrophe. Here, now, lay the sole avenue of escape. So she announced it with positiveness that admitted no question. Thus only might courage be held. May, for her part, eager to believe, received the declaration without doubt. Moreover, Roy had discoursed to her at length concerning the curious operations of the sixth sense. With that receptivity characteristic of the fond woman, she had accepted his pronouncements without hesitation, glad to believe whatsoever he believed. Besides, she had great faith in feminine intuition—and what was intuition, if not that self-same psychic thing over which her lover rhapsodized? Now, instinct cried that the man she loved was safe, and she believed.