be some other
way of entrance, for I saw one disappear close by the falling water.
Yes, and there goes another!" I cried, as I held up the light. "Tom--
Tom, they are the messengers of life! There is a way out yet!"

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

A JOURNEY IN THE DARK.

Again the hope which animated our breasts chased away the sense of
depression and fatigue, as, lighting our last candle to obtain a better
light, we clambered as rapidly as we could high up towards where the
water came roaring from its vast culvert, just as with a loud shriek a
bird flew out, like some creature of shadow-land, from a niche which had
hitherto escaped our notice.

The next moment, after a flit round the amphitheatre, it gave another
shriek, and we saw it re-enter the niche and disappear.

That there was an outlet to the upper world there we now had no doubt,
but the question arose which exit presented the least peril--the ascent
to this niche right over the arch of the torrent, or the way back by the
vault of the troubled waters, to swim for our lives down the little
river.

We did not pause long to consider, but, drawing our breath hard, sought
to climb up to where the bird had disappeared.

We needed the activity and power of some animal born to a climbing life,
for it was a terrible task, over slippery, spray-bedewed rocks, that
seemed composed of ice. Our feet and hands slipped again and again, and
more than once I felt that I must fall upon the bow of that torrent of
inky water, at first by our side, soon right beneath us, and so be
plunged into the seething cauldron below.

I found myself wondering whether, if I did so, my body would be forced
through along some subterranean way to the vault of the troubled waters,
from thence float out slowly along the little river, and so to the mouth
of the cave and the outer sunshine.

Such thoughts were enough to unnerve one; but, bit by bit, we climbed on
in safety, handing the candle from one to the other, and ever and anon
stretching out a helping hand, till, how I cannot tell, we clung at
length right over the falling torrent, with a piece of rock, smooth as
the polishing of ages could make it, between us and the niche, which now
proved to be a good-sized split separating a couple of rocks.

"You go first, Mas'r Harry," Tom whispered, with his mouth close to my
ear. "I'll stand firm, and you can climb up my shoulders, and then lend
me a hand."

I prepared to start, handing h