"But what are you doing, chief?" "Do you think I am going to allow myself to be buried alive in this vault? . . . Not if I know it; I haven't reached the age! . . . As the two doors are closed, let us try to pass through the walls." One by one he loosened the stones that stood out at the height of his hand, in the hope of contriving another gallery that would slope upwards to the level of the soil. But the work was long and painful, for in this part of the tunnel, as he perceived the stones were cemented. "Chief . . . chief," stammered Gourel, in a stifled voice. . . . "Well?" "You are standing with your feet in the water." "Nonsense! . . . Why, so I am! . . . Well, it can't be helped. . . . I'll dry them in the sun. . . ." "But don't you see?" "What?" "Why, it's rising, chief, it's rising! . . ." "What's rising?" "The water! . . ." M. Lenormand felt a shudder pass over his skin. He suddenly understood. It was not a casual trickling through, as he had thought, but a carefully-prepared flood, mechanically, irresistibly produced by some infernal system. "Oh, the scoundrel!" he snarled. "If ever I lay hands on him . . . !" "Yes, yes, chief, but we must first get out of this. . . . And, as far as I can see . . ." Gourel seemed completely prostrated, incapable of having an idea, of proposing a plan. M. Lenormand knelt down on the ground and measured the rate at which the water was rising. A quarter, or thereabouts, of the first door was covered; and the water was half-way toward the second door. "The progress is slow, but uninterrupted," he said "In a few hours it will be over our heads." "But this is terrible, chief, it's horrible!" moaned Gourel. "Oh, look here, don't come boring me with your lamentations, do you understand? Cry, if it amuses you, but don't let me hear you!" "It's the hunger that weakens me, chief; my brain's going round." "Bite your fist!" As Gourel said, the position was terrible; and, if M. Lenormand had had less energy, he would have abandoned the vain struggle. What was to be done? It was no use hoping that Ribeira would have the charity to let them out. It was no use either hoping that the brothers Doudeville would rescue them, for the inspectors did not know of the existence of the tunnel. So no hope remained . . . no hope but that of an impossible miracle. . . . "Come, come," said M. Lenormand, "this is too silly. We're not going to kick the bucket here! Hang it all, there must be something! . . . Show me a light, Gourel." Flattening himself against the second door, he examined it from top to bottom, in every corner. There was an enormous bolt on that side, just as there probably was on the other. He unfastened the screws with the blade of his knife; and the bolt came off in his hand. "And what next?" asked Gourel. "What next?" he echoed. "Well, this bolt is made of iron, pretty long and very nearly pointed. Certainly, it's not as good as a pick-axe, but it's better than nothing and . . ."