He paused, for a wonderful vision had opened before him.  Coming through the short passage hewn in the rocks the American stood upon a ledge facing a most beautiful valley, that was hemmed in by precipitous cliffs on every side.  From these stern barriers of the outside world the ground sloped gradually toward the center, where a pretty brook flowed, its waters sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight as it tumbled over its rocky bed.  Groves of oranges and of olive, lemon and almond trees occupied much of the vale, and on a higher point at the right, its back to the wall of rock that towered behind it, stood a substantial yet picturesque mansion of stone, with several outbuildings scattered on either side.

The valley seemed, indeed, a toy kingdom sequestered from the great outside world, yet so rich and productive within itself that it was independent of all else.

Uncle John gazed with amazement.  Who could have guessed this delightful spot was hidden safe within the heart of the bleak, bare mountain surrounding it?  But suddenly he bethought himself.

“What place is this, Tato?” he asked; “and where is our friend Ferralti, who needs me?”

There was no reply.

He turned around to find the boy had disappeared.  Moreover, the passage had disappeared.  Only a wall of rock was behind him, and although his eyes anxiously searched the rifts and cracks of its rough surface, no indication of the opening through which he had passed could be discovered.

CHAPTER XVII

THE HIDDEN VALLEY

Uncle John’s first inspiration was to sit down upon a stone to think.  He drew out his pipe and lighted it, to assist his meditations.

These were none too pleasant.  That he had been cleverly entrapped, and that by a child scarcely in its teens, was too evident to need reflection.  And what a secure trap it was!  The mountains ranged all around the valley were impossible to scale, even by an Alpine climber, and to one who was not informed of its location the existence of the valley itself was unimaginable.

“I had not believed Ferralti was so shrewd,” he muttered, wonderingly.  “That something was wrong about the fellow I knew, of course; but I had not suspected such a thing as this.  Now, then, first of all let me mark this spot, so that I will remember it.  Just back of where I now stand is the entrance or outlet to the tunnel through the wall.  It is closed, I suppose, by a swinging stone, like the one on the opposite side.  I saw that one opened—­opened by some person concealed from view, as soon as the boy sang his bit of song which was the signal agreed upon.  And I was fool enough, after that warning, to walk straight through the tunnel!  You’re getting old, John Merrick; that’s the only way I can account for your folly.  But Ferralti hasn’t won the odd trick yet, and if I keep my wits about me he isn’t likely to win.”