Harold took the iron crow, and having made the rope fast to it fixed the bar across the mouth of the aperture.  Then he doubled the rope, tied some knots in it, and let it fall into the pit, preparatory to climbing down it.

But George was too quick for him.  Forgetting his doubts as to the wisdom of groping about Dead Man’s Mount at night, in the ardour of his burning curiosity he took the dark lantern, and holding it with his teeth passed his body through the hole in the masonry, and cautiously slid down the rope.

“Are you all right?” asked Harold in a voice tremulous with excitement, for was not his life’s fortune trembling on the turn?

“Yes,” answered George doubtfully.  Harold looking down could see that he was holding the lantern above his head and staring at something very hard.

Next moment a howl of terror echoed up from the pit, the lantern was dropped upon the ground and the rope began to be agitated with the utmost violence.

In another two seconds George’s red nightcap appeared followed by a face that was literally livid with terror.

“Let me up for Goad’s sake,” he gasped, “or he’ll hev me by the leg!”

“He! who?” asked the Colonel, not without a thrill of superstitious fear, as he dragged the panting man through the hole.

But George would give no answer until he was out of the grave.  Indeed had it not been for the Colonel’s eager entreaties, backed to some extent by actual force, he would by this time have been out of the summer-house also, and half-way down the mount.

“What is it?” roared the Colonel in the pit to George, who shivering with terror was standing on its edge.

“It’s a blessed ghost, that’s what it is, Colonel,” answered George, keeping his eyes fixed upon the hole as though he momentarily expected to see the object of his fears emerge.

“Nonsense,” said Harold doubtfully.  “What rubbish you talk.  What sort of a ghost?”

“A white un,” said George, “all bones like.”

“All bones?” answered the Colonel, “why it must be a skeleton.”

“I don’t say that he ain’t,” was the answer, “but if he be, he’s nigh on seven foot high, and sitting airing of hissel in a stone bath.”

“Oh, rubbish,” said the Colonel.  “How can a skeleton sit and air himself?  He would tumble to bits.”

“I don’t know, but there he be, and they don’t call this here place ‘Dead Man’s Mount’ for nawthing.”

“Well,” said the Colonel argumentatively, “a skeleton is a perfectly harmless thing.”

“Yes, if he’s dead maybe, sir, but this one’s alive, I saw him nod his head at me.”

“Look here, George,” answered Harold, feeling that if this went on much longer he should lose his nerve altogether.  “I’m not going to be scared.  Great heavens, what a gust!  I’m going down to see for myself.”

“Very good, Colonel,” answered George, “and I’ll wait here till you come up again—­that is if you iver du.”