"Right!" I said eagerly, and pointed forward. For we had just come in sight, at a bend, of a spot where great stones were laid across from wall to wall; and on passing under them we found our way encumbered beyond by numbers of similar blocks, some of which seemed to have crumbled away in the middle till they broke in two and then dropped. "Oh yes," said Denham, in reply to a remark, "it's very interesting, of course, but we're not ruin-grubbers. I dare say the place was built in the year 1; and the knowing old codgers who understand these things would tell us that the people who built the place had dolly something, or square heads; but we want to find out which was the market-place where they kept the town-pump." "And as the pump is most probably worn out," I said laughingly, "we'll be content with the well." "Oh, if we find the well the pump-handle's sure to be at the bottom, and--Hullo! what have we got here?" I shared my companion's wonder, for upon rounding a curve of the passage we came upon an opening in the great stones of the inner wall--an opening that was wonderfully perfect, being covered in by the cross-stones, which were in place over the passage where the doorway showed. "Dark," I said as I passed in. "No; only just here. There's another wall, and quite a narrow passage not above three feet wide, and then it's light again." "Let's look," said Denham. "Stop a minute, though. Don't go in, or you may drop down some hole. Here, I'll strike a light." The next minute a little match was lighting up the narrow place, with the wall close in front and then a passage going off to the right. "Why, it's like Hampton Court Maze done in stone," said Denham. "But there, what did I say? Look at that hole." He pitched the remains of the burning match to the right, and it dropped down out of sight, lighting up the narrow way and then going out. "That's the well, I believe," I said. "Let well alone," replied Denham. "We don't want to tumble down there.--I say, Briggs, pick up that bit of stone, and reach in and pitch it down." The sergeant rested his rifle against the wall, picked up a block of stone, and reaching in, threw it to his left so accurately, by good chance, that it must have dropped right in the middle of the opening and gone down clear for some distance before it struck against stone, and then rebounded and struck again, rumbling and rolling down for some distance before it stopped. "Cheerful sort of place to have gone down," said Denham. "Tell you what; that's the way down to the wine-cellars. The old races were rare people for cultivating the grape and making wine." "I believe it's the way down to the vaults where they buried their dead," I said. "Ugh! Horrid," cried my companion. "Here, let's light another match."