Captain Luvaine—misanthrope, ascetic¹, wiry as a ferret and disciplined on a drum-head—had fallen asleep at his post. No doubt the exhaustion² induced by cold, hunger, and the emotion to which he had lately been subjected, was responsible for this lapse³ into a condition quite humanly natural. It was unfortunate for all, however, and very particularly for the unfortunate gentleman himself, that it should have occurred in the place and at the moment most fatal to the cause he had to serve.

 

For half-an-hour—his pistol cuddled in his left arm as if it were a wakeful baby—he measured his monotonous⁴ tramp in the little circumscribed⁵ chamber⁶ where was situated⁷ the “Priest’s Hole.” Upon a bracket on the wall a single candle burned, its flames shrugging peevishly⁸ in the cold draught⁹ that came through the high grating in the masonry¹⁰. The trap of the vault¹¹ was thrown open, the woodwork lying flat upon the floor; but the stone below was swung to upon its pivot¹², and at every recurring¹³ wheel in his march, he glanced down to see that this stone held its place, and that no stealthy pressure was applying to it from the tunnel-side. For, an extreme probability that the

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