elphia. What could have
occurred, then, to prevent Peter or the girl from setting me free? Could
they have been forced into accompanying the soldiers? Could they have
forgotten? Could they deliberately leave me there to die?

My brain whirled with incipient madness, as such questions haunted me
unceasingly. I lost faith in everything, even her, and cursed aloud,
hating the echoes of my own voice. It seemed as though those walls, that
low roof, were crushing me, as if the close, foul air was suffocating. I
recall tearing open the front of my shirt to gain easier breath. I walked
about beating with bare hands the rough stone, muttering to myself words
without meaning. The candle had burned down until barely an inch
remained.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE REMAINS OF TRAGEDY

It must have been the shock of thus realizing suddenly how short a time
remained in which I should have light which restored my senses. I know I
stared at the dim yellow flicker dully at first, and then with a swift
returning consciousness which spurred my brain into activity. In that
instant I hated, despised myself, rebelled at my weakness. Faith in
Claire Mortimer came back to me in a flood of regret. If she had failed,
it was through no fault of hers, and I was no coward to lie there and rot
without making a stern fight for life. When I was found, those who came
upon my body would know that I died struggling, died as a man should,
facing fate with a smile, with hands gripped in the contest. The
resolution served--it was a spur to my pride, instantly driving away
every haunting shadow of evil. Yet where should I turn? To what end
should I devote my energies? It was useless to climb those stairs again.
But there must be a way out. It was impossible to conceive that the
old-time Mortimer--the stern frontiersman who had built this refuge from
possible Indian attack--had made merely a hole in which to hide. That
would have been insanity, for, with the house above aflame, he would have
been cooked to a crisp. No! that was inconceivable; there must have
originally been an exit somewhere. But where? And if discovered would it
be found choked by the _debris_ of a century, a mere _cul de sac_? Surely
none of this present generation knew the existence of any such passage.
Yet it was the single desperate chance remaining, and I dare not let
doubt numb my faculties.

I gripped the old musket as the only instrument at hand, and began
testing the walls. Three