"My baby cup," she said, as she held it out to me. I looked at the engraved letters, and read:
"Cynthia Schuyler Archer, June 15, 1803."
I laughed as I read the date aloud.
"As bad as the family Bible," said I.
"For Heaven's sake," urged the Skipper, "go to the back of the cave if you mean to make so much noise. One of those wretches looked up here just now when you laughed."
Familiarity with danger always makes it appear less.
I took the cup from Cynthia's hand and started for the passage through which we had entered the cave.
"Oh, don't go!" said Cynthia, but very faintly, I thought.
"Whatever you do, don't let 'em see you," said the Skipper. "They must imagine themselves quite alone on the shore."
"I think I can steal down this side of the cliff," said I, "and get through the underbrush to the shore of the stream. Remember they are across on the other side, and they are sleepy after their liquor. The only persons who could see me would be the prisoners, and I don't believe they would give the alarm."