“But there is one,” says he, nodding his head. “When I first came here--and that’s nigh on to sixty years since, Master Richard--it was open at one end, and I’ve been in it. Sir Nicholas’s father had it closed up. ’Twas a relic of the Popish days,” he says, “and there was some old woman’s tale about it that I ha’ forgotten.” “But if it’s closed up?” says I. “It was only a matter o’ stout boarding put over the mouth,” says he. “I make no doubt that it’s open all the rest of the way, though I say naught as to Wood’s end on’t. If we could get a clear passage,” he says, looking at me, “there’s an easy deliverance out of our present difficulties, Master Richard.” “Marry, so there is!” says I. And indeed there was naught that could be easier. I sat thinking the matter over for a moment. “Egad, Gregory!” I says, “if only this passage is open we can circumvent the enemy and put Mistress Alison in safety with no trouble beyond a trifling discomfort. Come,” I says, starting up, “let’s down into the cellars and examine things for ourselves.” Now, I am a bit slow at taking some things in, as for instance, a woman’s meaning, which always seems to me to be the exact opposite of what it really is, but at contrivances and strategies I am, I think, as sharp as any, and I lost no time in making up my mind as to what I would do supposing this passage proved open to us. Our position was this--the Manor House stood at the west side of East Hardwick village, some one hundred and twenty yards away from Wood’s farmstead, which was the only considerable house in the place beside our own. Between the two houses stood certain cottages, tenanted by labourers that worked in the fields. Beyond Wood’s house the land dropped away to the foot of Went Hill, a long low range of hillside extending from Darrington Mill to the village of Wentbridge. If Alison and I could escape by the passage and make our way across the fields to Wentbridge, we should there come into the Great North Road which ran thence in a straight course, through Barnsdale, to Francis French’s house, where I could deliver her in safety. It was possible that we might find horses or some conveyance at the “Blue Bell,” on Wentbridge Hill, but if that plan failed we were neither of us unfitted to walk some twelve miles in the darkness. But as we went down the steep steps into the cellar my thoughts turned back to Mistress Alison. If it was her pleasure to stand by the old house, how on earth was I going to persuade or oblige her to leave it? It was all very well for Gregory to say that a woman must be commanded and not argued with, but there was something in me that whispered grave doubts as to the wisdom of trying his advice on my cousin. “But I’ll leave that till last,” thinks I; “the passage comes first,” and I hastened to join Gregory, who was fumbling at the cellar door. II.