Carefully feeling his way both with hands and feet, he advanced a step or two, and came to a place where the passage widened a little, and then took a sharp turn and became so narrow that it was with difficulty he forced himself through. It was, however, but one close pinch, and he found himself, as his feet told him, at the top of a steep descent. He stood for a moment hesitating, for prudence demanded a light. The sound of the sea was behind him, but all in front was still as the darkness of the grave. Suddenly up from unknown depths of gloom, came the tones of a sweet childish voice, singing--_The Lord’s my Shepherd_. Malcolm waited until the psalm was finished, and then called out: “Mr Stewart! I’m here--Malcolm MacPhail. I want to see ye. Tell him it’s me, Phemy.” A brief pause followed; then Phemy’s voice answered: “Come awa’ doon. He says ye s’ be welcome.” “Canna ye shaw a licht than; for I dinna ken a fit o’ the ro’d,” said Malcolm. The next moment a light appeared at some little distance below, and presently began to ascend, borne by Phemy, towards the place where he stood. She took him by the hand without a word, and led him down a slope, apparently formed of material fallen from the roof, to the cave already described. The moment he entered it, he marked the water in its side, the smooth floor, the walls hollowed into a thousand fantastic cavities, and knew he had come upon the cave in which his great grandfather had found refuge so many years before. Changes in its mouth had rendered entrance difficult, and it had slipped by degrees from the knowledge of men. At the bottom of the slope, by the side of the well, sat the laird. Phemy set the little lantern she carried on its edge. The laird rose and shook hands with Malcolm and asked him to be seated. “I’m sorry to say they’re efter ye again, laird,” said Malcolm after a little ordinary chat. Mr Stewart was on his feet instantly. “I maun awa’. Tak care o’ Phemy,” he said hurriedly. “Na, na, sir,” said Malcolm, laying his hand on his arm; “there’s nae sic hurry. As lang ’s I’m here ye may sit still; an’, as far ’s I ken, naebody’s fun’ the w’y in but mysel’, an’ that was yer am wyte (_blame_), laird. But ye hae garred mair fowk nor me luik, an’ that’s the pity o’ ’t.” “I tauld ye, sir, ye sudna cry oot,” said Phemy. “I couldna help it,” said Stewart apologetically. “Weel, ye sudna ha’ gane near them again,” persisted the little woman. “Wha kent but they kent whaur I cam frae?” persisted the laird. “Sit ye doon, sir, an’ lat’s hae a word aboot it,” said Malcolm cheerily. The laird cast a doubting look at Phemy. “Ay, sit doon,” said Phemy. Mr Stewart yielded, but nervous starts and sudden twitches of the muscles betrayed his uneasiness: it looked as if his body would jump up and run without his mind’s consent. “Hae ye ony w’y o’ winnin’ oot o’ this, forbye (_besides_) the mou’ o’ the cave there?” asked Malcolm.