writing on the wall grew dimmer. They were only visible when, standing before the flame, she cast them into shadow.
“Well, this is a pretty state of things, upon my word! There doesn’t seem to be a door!”
There did not. The flickering match served to show that we were in what looked uncommonly like an ingenious trap. We were in what seemed to be a sort of vault, or cell, which was just large enough to enable us to turn about with a tolerable amount of freedom, and that was all. Semblance of a door there was none, not even of that by which we had entered. So far as could be judged by that imperfect light on all four sides were dirty, discoloured, bare walls, in not one of which was there a crack or crevice which suggested a means of going out or in. As Pollie had said, it was indeed a pretty state of things. It seemed that we were prisoners, and in a prison from which there was no way out. Our situation reminded me of terrible stories which I had read about the Spanish Inquisition; of the sufferings of men and women, and even girls, who had spent weeks, and months, and years, in hidden dungeons out of which they had never come alive again.
Just as I had begun to really realise the fact that there did not seem to be a door, Pollie’s match went out. That same moment there came a fresh crash from without. And, directly after, another sound, or, rather, sounds. Something was taking place outside which, to us, shut in there, sounded uncommonly like a scrimmage, or the beginning of one, at any rate. Someone else, apparently, had climbed over the wall, a weighty someone, for we heard him descend with a ponderous flop. Without a doubt, the first comers had heard him too, with misgivings. Something fell, with a clatter—perhaps the tool with which they had been assailing the door. There was a scurrying of feet, as of persons eager to seek safety in flight. An exclamation or two, it seemed to us in English; then a thud, as if
