magination; thus my mind running on this and very full of troubled
perplexity, I suffered my lady to bring me within our refuge, but with
my ears on the stretch as expectant to hear again that strange, deep
voice sing these words I had heard chanted by a dead man in my dreams.

Being come within our third cave (or kitchen) my lady shows me a small
cord that dangled in certain shadowy corner, and pulling on this cord,
down falls a rope-ladder and hangs suspended; and I knew this for
Adam's "ladder of cords" whereby he had been wont to mount into his
fourth (and secret) cavern, as mentioned in his chronicle.

"Here lieth safety, Martin," says my lady, "for as Master Penfeather
writes in his journal 'one resolute man lying upon the hidden ledge'
(up yonder) 'may withstand a whole army so long as his shot last.' And
you are very resolute and so am I!"

"True!" says I, "True!" Yet, even as I spake, stood all tense and
rigid, straining my ears to catch again the words of this hateful song.
But now my dear lady catches my hand and, peering up at me in the
dimness, presently draws me into the outer cave where the moon made a
glory.

"O Martin!" says she, looking up at me with troubled eyes, "Dear
Martin, what is it?"

"Aye--what?" quoth I, wiping sweat from me. "God knoweth. But you
heard? That song? The words--"

"I heard a man singing, Martin. But what of it--we are safe here!
Ah--why are you so strange?"

"Damaris," says I, joying in the comfort of her soft, strong arms about
me, "dear love of mine, here is thing beyond my understanding, for
these were words I dreamed sung to me by a dead man--the man
Humphrey--out beyond the reef--"

"Nay, but dear Martin, this was a real voice. 'Tis some shipwrecked
mariner belike, some castaway--"

"Aye--but did you--mark these words, Damaris?"

"Nay--O my dear, how should I--at such a moment!"

"They were all--of Black Bartlemy! And what should this mean, think
you?"

"Nay, dear love, never heed!" says she, clasping me the closer.

"Aye, but I must, Damaris, for--in a while this singing shall come
again mayhap and--if it doth--I know what 'twill be!"

"O Martin--Martin, what do you mean?"

"I mean 'twill be about the poor Spanish lady," says I, and catching up
my belt where it hung, I buckled it about me.

"Ah--what would you do, Martin?"

"I'm for Deliverance."

"Then will I come also."

"No!" says I, catching her in fierce arms, "No! You are mine
hen