He turned away in another direction and swung his lanthorn over a little basin in the rock, full of clear water, that came bubbling to the surface. “It looks like a spring,” says I. “Aye, but look closer,” says he, whereupon I bent my head and saw a hundred little fishes that darted hither and thither, turning their heads towards the light. “Why, that’s curious!” says I. “But not half so curious as you shall find,” says Gregory, and bends down to scoop up a palmful of water. “Look thee there, lad,” says he, holding the light over his hand. “The Lord have mercy!” says I, as I stared; and faith, there was excuse for my fear. For the fish that he had taken up, smaller than the minnows that lads draw out o’ the streams, was blind as a bat, having a thin white skin drawn over its eyes, and ’twas pitiful to see its head dart this way and that, and the white scale that blinded it turn to the glint of the candle. “For God’s sake, Gregory!” says I, “No more o’ thy horrors. Let us to this passage, ere I go crazy. Why, man, this is the very infernal pit--to think there is a gentleman’s house above it!” “We are a good way from the house, Master Richard,” says he; “Hark, that’s the horses stamping in the stable over us. But the passage should be here under this heap o’ timber, which we must remove.” There was a pile of logs leaned up against the corner of the cellar, damp, rotten, falling to pieces, and giving harbour to more foul things that crept about the scaling bark. “This is a very palace of vermin!” says I, as I helped Gregory to shift the logs. “God send the passage have less of horrors than its porch!” “You can soon find out about that,” says he, as we laid bare the boards that covered the entrance. “’Twas dry enough when I was last in it, nigh on to sixty year ago.” The boards were damp and rotten. They came down with small effort on our part, and we were presently gazing into the mouth of the passage. It presented itself as a low-roofed tunnel of some five feet in height and four in width, hewn out of a sandstone bed which there separated itself from the rock. It was carpeted with a fine thick sand and seemed dry, though its looks were belied by a breath of foul moisture that came from it as we stood peering into its darkness. The entrance was strengthened by rude masonry that extended for some yards along the passage: it was evident that in days gone by there had been constant use of it for some purpose or other. “There it is, master,” says Gregory, swinging his lanthorn along the walls. “Aye,” says I, not half-liking the task that I knew I must needs undertake, “and the next thing is to find out, if ’tis possible, how far it is from this spot to Wood’s house?” I says. “Let’s see,” says he, scratching his head. “Why, come, we are under our own stable now, and that’s a good twenty yards from our scullery window. We must be,” says he, “a hundred yards from Wood’s cellar.”