"Come, Gourel," he cried, returning to fetch his companion.
He dragged him, half dead, by the wrists:
"Come along, booby, pull yourself together! We are saved."
"Do you really think so, chief? . . . The water's up to our chests. . . ."
"Never mind, as long as it's not over our mouths. . . . Where's your lantern?"
"It's not working."
"No matter." He gave an exclamation of delight. "One step . . . two steps! . . . A staircase. . . . At last!"
They emerged from the water, that accursed water which had almost swallowed them up; and it was a delicious sensation, a release that sent up their spirits.
"Stop!" said M. Lenormand.
His head had knocked against something. With arms outstretched, he pushed against the obstacle, which yielded at once. It was the flap of a trap-door; and, when this trap-door was opened, he found himself in a cellar into which the light of a fine night filtered through an air-hole.