That there should be such a place as a dungeon beneath the hacienda of the alcade did not seem to astonish me in the least—indeed, I appeared to take it as a most natural thing; as though these casas of the rich Bolivar citizens must be built something on the order of the old-time feudal castles, with all manner of secret passages and doors.
I think a moat or a drawbridge, perhaps even a portcullis, might not have been amiss in the premises.
After a while I found it useless to dream of seeing in such dense blackness, and accordingly pulled myself together.
It required a pretty stout heart not to feel downcast over the discouragements with which I found myself confronted.
One thing buoyed me up amazingly—even the hatred of the alcalde could not dismay me when I knew I possessed the love and confidence of Hildegarde; in the bitter past she could never come to regard me as anything beyond a mediocre fellow, far below the standard she had set for her hero; but, thanks to Heaven, a change had come over the spirit of her dream, a change as tremendous as it was complete, and now in her eyes I represented the flower of chivalry.
I remembered that blessed match box—if they had not surreptitiously searched my pockets I should have that useful article still.
Yes, it was all right.
Eagerly I snapped a match—it flashed and went out, on account of careless handling.
Come, this would never do—my stock was entirely too small for such reckless waste.
The second trial proved a success, but it did not seem to arouse my enthusiasm, for the place was apparently a hopeless hole in the ground—heavy walls surrounded me on all sides, the door appeared to be quite massive, and what little air penetrated the moldy dungeon came from a grating of some sort high above my reach, probably opening into the garden.