ingly;
at least, he thought challengingly. He had half a mind to concur. Could
anything be better than to have Westerling present if suspicions proved
correct? But no. She wanted Westerling and that was the best reason why
he should not be present. Yet there was no sign of chicane in the
brimming fun of her eyes that went with the suggestion. Bouchard's
search for the proper words of dissent left him rather confused and at a
disadvantage. With sympathetic quickness she seemed to guess his
thoughts, and in a way that he found all the more exasperating.

"No, no! We're too impatient! We can't wait, can we?" she exclaimed.
"Let's go. Let's get the ghosts single-handed, you and I. If we win
we'll demand a specially large bronze cross to be struck for us."

"Yes," he agreed with an affectation of humor that made him feel
ludicrous. He always felt ludicrous when he tried to be humorous.

"Come on!" said Marta, going to the stairway.

He extended his hand to take the lantern with an "If you please!"

"No. When we approach the enemy I'll let you lead," she replied,
refusing the offer. "I'll be only too glad then; but these stairs are
very tricky if you don't know them. Keep watch!" she warned him as she
started to descend, picking her way slowly.

Once in the tunnel she held the lantern a little back of her in her
right hand, which threw a shadow to the left on the side of the panel
door. She was walking very fast, too fast to please Bouchard. In the
swinging rays he could not fly-speck the surroundings with the care that
he desired. Yet how could he ask her to slacken her pace? This she did
of her own accord before they had gone far.

"Isn't it damp and deathlike? Think of it!" she exclaimed. "No ray of
sunlight has been in here since the tunnel was dug--no, not even then;
for probably it was dug after the castle was built. Think of the stories
these walls could tell after the silence of centuries! Think of the
prisoners driven along at the point of the halberd to slow death in the
dungeons! You feel their spirits in the cold, clammy air." Her elocution
was excellent, as her voice sank to an awed whisper, impressing even
Bouchard with a certain uncanniness. Her steps became slow, as with
effort, while he was not missing a square inch of the top, bottom, or
sides of the tunnel. "But I'll not--I'll not this time, when I have a
soldier with me. For once I'll go to the end!" she cried with forced
courage, suddenly starting