“I know nothing,” said Marco.

“You might remain in the good little black cellar an unpleasantly long time before you were found,” the man went on, quite coolly.  “Do you remember the peasants who came to see your father two nights before you left?”

“I know nothing,” said Marco.

“By the time it was discovered that the house was empty and people came in to make sure, you might be too weak to call out and attract their attention.  Did you go to Budapest from Vienna, and were you there for three months?” asked the inquisitor.

“I know nothing,” said Marco.

“You are too good for the little black cellar,” put in the Lovely Person.  “I like you.  Don’t go into it!”

“I know nothing,” Marco answered, but the eyes which were like Loristan’s gave her just such a look as Loristan would have given her, and she felt it.  It made her uncomfortable.

“I don’t believe you were ever ill-treated or beaten,” she said.  “I tell you, the little black cellar will be a hard thing.  Don’t go there!”

And this time Marco said nothing, but looked at her still as if he were some great young noble who was very proud.

He knew that every word the bearded man had spoken was true.  To cry out would be of no use.  If they went away and left him behind them, there was no knowing how many days would pass before the people of the neighborhood would begin to suspect that the place had been deserted, or how long it would be before it occurred to some one to give warning to the owner.  And in the meantime, neither his father nor Lazarus nor The Rat would have the faintest reason for guessing where he was.  And he would be sitting alone in the dark in the wine-cellar.  He did not know in the least what to do about this thing.  He only knew that silence was still the order.

“It is a jet-black little hole,” the man said.  “You might crack your throat in it, and no one would hear.  Did men come to talk with your father in the middle of the night when you were in Vienna?”

“I know nothing,” said Marco.

“He won’t tell,” said the Lovely Person.  “I am sorry for this boy.”

“He may tell after he has sat in the good little black wine-cellar for a few hours,” said the man with the pointed beard.  “Come with me!”

He put his powerful hand on Marco’s shoulder and pushed him before him.  Marco made no struggle.  He remembered what his father had said about the game not being a game.  It wasn’t a game now, but somehow he had a strong haughty feeling of not being afraid.

He was taken through the hallway, toward the rear, and down the commonplace flagged steps which led to the basement.  Then he was marched through a narrow, ill-lighted, flagged passage to a door in the wall.  The door was not locked and stood a trifle ajar.  His companion pushed it farther open and showed part of a wine-cellar which was so dark that it was only the shelves nearest the door that Marco could faintly see.  His captor pushed him in and shut the door.  It was as black a hole as he had described.  Marco stood still in the midst of darkness like black velvet.  His guard turned the key.