The plebes would have been frightened indeed had they been there to see it. For the figure was not that of Bull Harris.
It was an old, old man, with bent and stooping figure and a long white, flowing beard. There was a gleam of fury in his eyes, and in his hand he clutched a long, keen knife.
Of him the plebes saw nothing, for they were busily making their way through the passage. They were finding much in that to interest them.
Their journey was made with all slowness and caution, and with no little trembling, too. What might be in the black and secret recesses of this mysterious cave no one dared to guess. Pitfalls must be watched for at their feet, and wild animals—or yearlings—ahead.
The tunnel narrowed rapidly after a short distance, until the plebes could hardly walk erect. Peering in still further they could see that it got smaller and smaller still, so that hands and knees would soon be the order of the day. The lads hesitated; but a moment later, Mark, peering ahead, caught sight of something in the dim candlelight that made him spring quickly forward.
“By jingo!” he cried. “Fellows, they’ve had something to eat in here.”
The Seven stared in amazement—and some little indignation. The impudence of Bull! Yes, it certainly was true, for there was a still smoking fire, and scraps of food scattered about.
“Come ahead!” exclaimed Mark, quickly. “I believe we’ve got ’em trapped in here.”
Mark stooped and hurried away through the narrow passage.
“Say!” growled Texas, “if we do ketch ’em——!”