The girl nodded.

“Mr. Cavendish,” she said with womanly courage, “you will not find me wanting.  I am ready for anything, even shooting.  I do hope you’re a good shot.”

Cavendish smiled.

“I have had some experience,” he said.

“Then,” the girl added, “you had better take the revolver.  I never fired one except on the Fourth of July, and I would not want to trust to my marksmanship in a pinch.  Not that we will meet any such situation, Mr. Cavendish—­I hope we do not—­but in case we do I want to depend upon you.”

“I am glad you said that, Miss Donovan; it gives me courage.”

The girl handed the revolver over to him without a word and then held out the cartridge belt.  He snapped open the weapon to assure himself it was loaded and then ran his fingers over the belt pockets.

“Thirty-six rounds,” adjusting the belt to his waist; “that ought to promise a good fight.  Do you feel confidence in me again?”

“Yes,” she answered, her eyes lifting to meet his.  “I trust you.”

“Good.  I am not a very desperate character, but will do the best I can.  Shall we try the passage?”

“Yes.  It is the only hope.”

“All right then; I’ll go first, and you follow as close as possible.  There mustn’t be the slightest sound made.”

Cavendish thrust his head cautiously through the door, the revolver gripped in his hand; Miss Donovan, struggling to keep her nerves steady, touched the coat of her companion, fearful of being alone.  The passage-way was dark, except for the little bars of light streaming out through the slits in the stone above the cell doors.  These, however, were sufficient to convince Cavendish that no guards were in the immediate neighbourhood.  He felt the grip of the girl’s fingers on his coat, and reached back to clasp her hand.

“All clear,” he whispered.  “Hurry, and let’s get this door closed.”

They slipped through, crouching in the shadow as the door shut behind them, eagerly seeking to pierce the mystery of the gloom into which the narrow corridor vanished.  Beyond the two cells and their dim rays all was black silence, yet both felt a strange relief at escaping from the confines of their prison.  The open passage was cool, and the fugitives felt fresh air upon their cheeks; nowhere did any sound break the silence.  Stella had a feeling as though they were buried alive.

“That—­that is the way, is it not?” she asked.  “I was brought from below.”

“Yes; it is not far; see, the passage leads upward.  Come, we might as well learn what is ahead.”

They advanced slowly, keeping closely against the wall, and testing the floor cautiously before venturing a step.  A few yards plunged them into total darkness, and, although Cavendish had been conducted along there a prisoner, he retained small recollection of the nature of the passage.