Now I could walk upright; but my left shoulder rasped ever against solid rock. The blackness of utter negation was terrible; the cabined air an oppression that one almost felt it possible to lift from one’s head like an iron morion. For miles, I could have fancied, we thridded this infernal tunnel before the least little blur of light spread itself like salve on my aching vision. Then suddenly, like a midnight glowworm, the blur revealed itself, a fair luminous anther of fire in a nest of rays--and was a taper burning on the wall of a narrow chamber or excavation set in the heart of the bed-stone. “_Voilà ton ressui!_” exclaimed my sardonic guide; and, without another word, he turned and left me. I stood a moment confounded; then, with a shrug of my shoulders, walked into the little cellar and paused again in astonishment. From a stone ledge, on which it had been lying, it seemed, prostrate, a figure lifted itself and, standing with its back to me, swept the long hair from its eyes. I stared, I choked, I held out my arms as if in supplication. “_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!_” I cried--“if it is not Carinne, let me die!” CHAPTER XIV. THE QUARRIES OF MONT-ROUGE. She turned, the dear figure. I heard her breath catch as she leaned forward and gazed at me. Her hair was all tumbled abroad; her sweet scared eyes looked out of a thicket of it like little frightened birds from a copse. She took a hurried step or two in my direction, then cried, “_C’est un coup du ciel!_” and threw up her hands and pressed them to her face. I dropped my yearning arms. A needle of ice pierced my heart. “A judgment of heaven?” I cried, sorrowfully. The sound of my voice seemed like the very stroke of a thyrsus on her shoulders. She broke into an agitated walk--pacing to and fro in front of me--wringing her hands and clasping them thus to her temples. Her shadow fled before or after her like a coaxing child. Suddenly, to my amazement, she darted upon me, and seized and shook me in a little fury of passion. “_Prends cela, prends cela, prends cela!_” she cried; and then as suddenly she released me, and ran back to her ledge, and flung herself face-downwards thereon, sobbing as if her heart would break. Shocked and astounded beyond measure, I followed and stood over her. “Mademoiselle de Lâge,” I said, miserably--“of what am I guilty?” “Of everything--of nothing! Perhaps it is I that am to blame!” she cried in a muffled voice. “What have I done?” She sat up, weeping, and pressed the pain from her forehead. “Oh, monsieur! it is not a little thing to pass twelve hours in the most terrible loneliness--in the most terrible anxiety!” “I do not understand.” “You do not, indeed--the feelings of others--the wisdom of discretion.” “Mademoiselle!” I exclaimed, in all patience. She sat, with her palms resting upon the ledge. She looked up at me defiantly, though she yet fought with her sobs.