Henrietta crouched beside the lamp, lulling the child from time to time with a murmured word. She held the boy, whom she had come to save, tight in her arms; and the thought that she held him was bliss to her, though poisoned bliss. Whatever happened he would learn that she had reached the child. He would know--even if the worst came--what she had done for him. But the worst must not come. Were she once in the open under the stars, how quickly could she flee down the road with this light burden in her arms--down the road until she saw the star-sprinkled lake spread below her! In twenty minutes, were she outside, she might be safe. In twenty minutes, only twenty minutes, she might place the child in his arms, she might read the joy in his eyes, and hear words--ah, so unlike those which she had heard from him!

There were only two doors between herself and freedom. Her heart beat at the thought. In twenty minutes how different it might be with her--in twenty minutes, were she at liberty!

She must wait until the child was sound asleep. Then when she could lay him down she would examine the place. The purity of the air proved that there was either a secret inlet for the purpose of ventilation, or that the door which shut off their prison from the well-head fitted ill and loosely. In the latter case it was possible that her strength might avail to force the door and make escape possible. They might not have given her credit for the vigour which she felt that she had it in her to show if the opportunity offered itself.

In the meantime she scrutinised, as she sat, every foot of the walls, without discovering anything to encourage hope or point to a second exit. The light of the dim lamp revealed only smooth courses of bricks, so near her eyes, so low upon her head, so bewildering in their regularity and number, that they appalled her the more the longer she gazed on them. It was to seek relief that she rose at last, and laying the sleeping child aside, went to the door and examined it.

Alas! it presented to the eye only solid wood, overlapping the aperture which it covered, and revealing in consequence neither hinges nor fastening. She set her shoulder against it, and thrust with all her might. But it neither bent nor moved, and in despair she left it, and stooping low worked her way round the walls. Her closest scrutiny revealed nothing; not a slit as wide as her slenderest finger, not a peg, nor a boss, nor anything that promised exit. She returned to the door, and made another and more desperate attempt to burst it. But her strength was unequal to the task, and to avoid a return of the old panic, which threatened to overcome her, she dropped down beside the child, and took him again in her arms, feeling that in the appeal which the boy's helplessness made to her she had her best shield against such terrors.

The next moment, with a flicker or two, the light went out. She was in complete darkness.

She fought with herself and with the impulse to shriek; and she conquered. She drew a deep breath as she sat, and with the unconscious child in her arms, stared motionless before her.

"They will come back," she murmured steadfastly; "they will come back! They will come back! And in the meantime I must be brave for the child's sake. I have only to wait! And they will come back!"

Nevertheless, it was hard to wait. It was hard not to let her thoughts run on the things which might prevent their return. They might be put to flight, they might be discovered and killed, they might be taken and refuse to say where she was. And then? Then?

But for the child's sake she must not, she would not, think of that. She must dwell, instead, on the shortness of the time that had elapsed since they left her. She could not guess what the hour was, but she judged that it was something after midnight now, and that half of the dark hours were gone. Even so, she had long to wait before she could expect to be visited. She must have patience, therefore. Above all, she must not think of the mountain of earth above her, of the two thick doors that shut her off from the living world, of the vault that almost touched her head as she sat. For when she did the air seemed to fail her, and the grip of frenzied terror came near to raising her to her feet. Once on her feet and in that terror's grasp, she knew that she would rave and shriek, and beat on the walls--and go mad!

But she would not think of these things. She would sit quite still and hold the child more tightly to her, and be sensible. And be sensible! Above all, be sensible!

She thought of many things as she sat holding herself as it were; of her old home and her old life, the home and the life that seemed so far away, though no more than a few weeks divided her from them. But more particularly she thought of her folly and of the events of the last month; and of the child and of the child's father, and--with a shudder--of Walterson. How silly, how unutterably silly, she had been! And what stuff, what fustian she had mistaken for heroism; while, through all, the quiet restraint of the true master of men had been under her eyes.

Not that all the fault had been hers. She was sure of that even now. Captain Clyne had known her as little as she had known him, and had misjudged her as largely. That he might know her better was her main desire now; and that he might know it, whatever the issue, she had an inspiration. She took from her neck the gold clasp which had aroused old Hinkson's greed, and she fastened it securely inside the child's dress. If the child were rescued, the presence of the brooch would prove that she had succeeded in her quest, and been with the boy.

After that she dozed off, and presently, strange to say, she slept. Fortunately, the child also was worn out; and the two slept as soundly in the grim silence of the buried vault, with the load of earth above them and the water trickling from the well-hole beside them, as in the softest bed. They slept long, yet when Henrietta at last awoke it was happily to immediate consciousness of the position and of the need of coolness. The boy had been first to rouse himself and was crying for a light, and for something to quench his thirst. A little milk remained in the can, and with infinite precaution she groped for the vessel and found it. The milk was sour, but the boy lapped it eagerly, and Henrietta wetted her own lips, for she, too, was parched with thirst. She could have drunk ten times as much with pleasure, but she denied herself, and set the rest in a safe place. She did not know how long she had slept, and the fear that they might be left to meet a dreadful death would lift its head, hard as she strove to trample on it.

She gave the child a few spoonfuls of porridge and encouraged him to crawl about in the darkness. But after some restless, querulous moanings he slept again, and Henrietta was left to her thoughts, which continually grew more uneasy. She was hungry; and that seemed to prove that the morning was come and gone. If this were so were they to remain there all day? And if all day, all night? And all next day? And if so, if they were not discovered by next day, why not--forever?

Again she had to struggle against the hysterical terror that gripped and choked her. And resist it without action she could not. She rose, and in the dark felt her way to the hatchway by which she had entered. Again she passed her fingers down the smooth edges where it met the brickwork. She sought something, some bolt, some peg, some hinge--anything that, if it did not lead to freedom, might hold her thoughts and give her occupation. But there was nothing! And when she had set her ear against the thick wood, still there was nothing. She turned from it, and went slowly and doggedly round the prison on her knees, feeling the brickwork here and there, and in very dearth of hope, searching with her fingers for that which had baffled her eyes. Round, and round again; with just a pause to listen and a stifled sob. But in vain. All, as she might have known, was toil in vain. All was futile, hopeless. And then the child awoke, and she had to take him up and soothe him and give him the last of the milk and the porridge. He seemed a little stronger and better. But she--she was growing frightened--horribly frightened. She must have been hours in that place; and she was very near to that breakdown, which she had kept at bay so long.

For she had no more food. And, worse, with the sound of water almost in her ears, with the knowledge that it ran no more than a few feet from her in a clear and limpid stream, she had nothing more with which she could quench the boy's thirst or her own. And she had no light. That frantic struggle to free herself, that strength of despair which might, however improbably, have availed her, were and must be futile for her, fettered and maimed by a darkness that could be felt. She drew the child nearer and hugged him to her. He was her talisman, her all, the tie that bound her to sanity, the being outside herself for whom she was bound to think and plan and be cool.

She succeeded--for the moment. But as she sat, dozing a little at intervals, with the child pressed closely to her, she fell from time to time into fits of trembling. And she prayed for light--only for light! And then again for some sound, some change in the cold, dead stillness that made her seem like a thing apart, aloof, removed from other things. And she was very thirsty. She knew that presently the child would grow thirsty again. And she would have nothing to give him.

The thought was torture, and she seemed to have borne it an age already; supported by the fear of rousing the boy and hastening the moment she dreaded. She would have broken down, she must have broken down, but for one thought; that, long as the hours seemed to her, and far distant as the moment of her entrance appeared, she might be a great way out in her reckoning of time. She might not have been shut up there so very long. The wretches who had put her there might not have fled. They might not have abandoned her. If she knew all she might be rid in an instant of her fears. All the time she might be torturing herself for nothing.

She clung passionately to that thought and to the child. But the prolonged uncertainty, the suspense, the waiting, tried her to the utmost of her endurance. Her ears ached with the pain of listening; her senses hungered for the sound of the footstep on which all depended. Would that sound never come? Once or twice she fancied that she heard it; and mocked by hope she stilled the very beating of her heart, that she might hear more keenly. But nothing followed, nothing. Nothing happened, and her heart sickened.

"Presently," she thought, "I shall begin to see things. I shall grow weak and fancy things. The horror of being buried alive will master me, and I shall shriek and shout and go mad. But that shall not be until the child's trouble is over--God helping me!"

And then, dazzling her with its brightness, a sudden thought flashed through her brain. Fool! Fool! She had succumbed in despair when a cry might release her! She had laid herself down to die, when she had but to lift up her voice, and the odds were that she would be heard. Ay, and be freed! For had not the girl threatened her with the man's coarse gallantries if she screamed? And to what purpose, if she were buried so deep that her complaints could not be heard?

The thought lifted a weight from her. It revived her hopes, almost her confidence. Immediately a current of vigour and courage coursed through her veins. But she did not shout at once. The child was asleep; she would await his awakening, and in the meantime she would listen diligently. For if she could be heard by those who approached the place, it was possible that she could hear them.

She had barely conceived the thought, when the thing for which she had waited so long happened. The silence was broken. A sound struck her ear. A grating noise followed. Then a shaft of light, so faint that only eyes long used to utter darkness could detect it, darted in and lay across the brickwork of the vault. In a twinkling she was on her knees and scrambling with the child in her arms towards the hatch. She had reached it and was touching it, when the bolts that held up the door slid clear, and with a sharp report the hatch fell. A burst of light poured in and blinded her. But what was sight to her? She, who had borne up against fear so bravely had now only one thought, only one idea in her mind--to escape from the vault. She tumbled out recklessly, fell against something, and only through the support of an unseen hand kept on her feet as she alighted in the well-head.

A man whom her haste had pushed aside, slapped her on the shoulder.

"Lord, you're in a hurry!" he said. "You've had enough of bed for once!"

"So would you," came the answer--in Bess's voice--"if you'd had twenty-four hours of it, my lad. All the same, she'll have to go back."

Trembling and dazed, Henrietta peered from one to the other. Mistress of herself two minutes before, she was now on the verge of hysteria, and controlled herself with an effort.

"Oh!" she cried. "Oh! thank God you've come! Thank God you've come! I thought you had left me."

She was thankful--oh, she was thankful; though these were no rescuers, but the two who had consigned her to that horrible place. Bess raised the lanthorn so that its light fell on the girl's haggard, twitching face.

"We could not come before," she said, with something like pity in her tone. "That's all."

"All!" Henrietta gasped. "All! Oh, I thought you had left me! I thought you had left me!"

Bess considered her, and there was beyond doubt something like softening in the girl's dark face. But her tone remained ironical.

"You didn't," she said, "much fancy your bedroom, I guess?"

Henrietta's teeth chattered.

"Oh, God forgive you!" she cried. "I thought you had left me! I thought you'd left me!"

"It was your own folks' fault," Bess retorted. "They've never had their eyes off the blessed house, one or another of them, from dawn to dark! We could not come. But now here's food, and plenty!" raising the light. "How's the child?"

"Bad! Bad!" Henrietta muttered.

She was coming to her senses. She was beginning to understand the position; to comprehend that no rescuers were here, no search party had found her; and that--and that--had not one of them dropped a word about her going back? Going back meant going back to that--place! With a sudden gesture she thrust the food from her.

"Ain't you going to eat?" Bess asked, staring. "I thought you'd be famished."

"Not here! Not here!" she answered violently.

"Oh, nonsense!" the other rejoined. "Don't be a fool! You're clemmed, I'll be bound. Eat while you can."

But, "Not here! Not here!" Henrietta replied. And she thrust the food away.

The man interposed.

"Stow it!" he said, in a threatening tone. "You eat while you can and where you can!"

But she was desperate.

"I'll not eat here!" she cried. "I'll not eat here! And I'll not go back!" her voice rising. "I will die before I will go back. Do you hear?" with the fierceness of a wild creature at bay. "I do not care what you do! And the child is dying. Another night--but I'll not suffer it! And if you lay a finger on me"--repelling Bess, who had made a feint of seizing her--"I will scream until I am heard! Ay, I will!" she repeated, her eyes sparkling. "But take me to the house and I will go quietly! I will go quietly!"

It was plain that she was almost beside herself, and that fear of the place in which she had passed so many hours had driven out all other fear. The two, who had not left her alone so long without misgiving, looked at one another and hesitated. They might overpower her. But the place was so closely watched that a single shriek might be heard; then they would be taken red-handed. Nor did Bess at least wish to use force. The position, and her views, were changed. All day curious eyes had been fixed on the house, and inquisitive people had started up where they were least expected. Bess's folly in bringing this hornets' nest about their ears had shaken her influence with the men; and the day had been one long exchange of savage recriminations. She owned to herself that she had done a foolish thing; that she had let her spite carry her too far. And in secret she was beginning to think how she could clear herself.

She did not despair of this; for she was crafty and of a good courage. She did not even think it would be hard; but she must, as a sine qu non, conciliate the girl whom she had wronged. Unluckily she now saw that she could not conciliate her without taking her to the house. And she could not with safety take her to the house. The men were irritated by the peril which she had brought upon them; they were ferocious and out of hand; and terribly suspicious to boot. They blamed her, Bess, for all: they had threatened her. And if she was not safe among them, she was quite sure that Henrietta would not be safe.

There was an alternative. She might let the girl go there and then. And she would have done this, but she could not do it without Giles's consent; and she dared not propose it to him. He was wanted for other offences, and the safe return of Henrietta and the child would not clear him. He had looked on the child, and now looked on the girl, as pawns in his game, a quid pro quo with which--if he were taken while they remained in his friends' hands--he might buy his pardon. Bess, therefore, dared not propose to free Henrietta: and what was she to do if the girl was so foolish as to refuse to go back to the place where she was safe?

"Look here," she said at last. "You're safer here than in the house, if you will only take my word for it."

But there is no arguing with fear.

"I will not!" Henrietta persisted, with passion. "I will not! Take me out of this! Take me out! The child will die here, and I shall go mad!--mad!"

"You're pretty mad now," the man retorted. But that said, he met Bess's eyes and nodded reluctantly. "Well," he said, "it's her own lookout. But I think she'll repent it."

"Will you go quiet?" Bess asked.

"Yes, yes!"

"And you'll not cry out? Nor try to break away?"

"I will not! I will not indeed!"

"You swear it?"

"I do."

"And by G--d," the man interposed bluntly, "she'd better keep to it."

"Very well," Bess said. "You have it your own way. But I tell you truly, I put you in here for the best. And perhaps you'll know it before you're an hour older. However, all's said, and it's your own doing."

"Why don't you let me go?" Henrietta panted. "Let me go, and let me take the child!"

"Stow it!" the man cried, cutting her short. "It's likely, when we're as like as not to pay dear for taking you. Do you shut your talking-trap!"

"She'll be quiet," Bess said, more gently. "So douse the glim, lad. And do you give me the child," to Henrietta.

But she cried, "No! No!" and held it more closely to her.

"Very good! Then take my hand--you don't know the way. And not a whisper, mind! Slip the bolt, Giles! And, mum, all!"