Although he was wan in any case, Earl Frederick's face now lost every last trace of color. He nodded, however, and preceded us into the passage. William Cowath led the way; the Earl followed him; and I brought up the rear. At the far end of the passage, the Factor opened the door of a cobwebbed supply room. Here he secured candles, chisels, a pick and a sledgehammer. After packing these into a leather bag which he slung over one shoulder, he picked up a faggot torch which lay on one of the shelves in the room. He lit this, waited while it flared into a steady flame. Satisfied with this illumination, he closed the room and beckoned for us to continue after him. Nearby was a descending spiral of stone steps. Lifting his torch, the Factor started down. We trailed after him wordlessly. There must have been fifty steps in that long downward spiral. As we descended, the stones became wet and cold; the air, too, grew colder, but the cold was not of the type that refreshes. It was too laden with the smell of mould and dampness. At the bottom of the steps we faced a tunnel, pitch-black and silent. The Factor raised his torch. "Chilton Castle is Norman but is said to have been reared over a Saxon ruin. It is believed that the passageways in these depths were constructed by the Saxons." He peered, frowning, into the tunnel. "Or by some still earlier folk." He hesitated briefly, and I thought he was listening. Then, glancing round at us, he proceeded down the passage. I walked after the Earl, shivering. The dead, icy air seemed to pierce to the pith of my bones. The stones underfoot grew slick with a film of slime. I longed for more light, but there was none save that cast by the flickering, bobbing torch of the Factor. Partway down the passage he paused and again I sensed that he was listening. The silence seemed absolute however, and we went on. The end of the passage brought us to more descending steps. We went down some fifteen and entered another tunnel which appeared to have been cut out of the solid rock on which the castle had been reared. White-crusted nitre clung to the walls. The reek of mould was intense. The icy air was fetid with some other odor which I found peculiarly repellent, though I could not name it. At last the Factor stopped, lifted his torch and slid the leather bag from his shoulder. I saw that we stood before a wall made of some kind of building stone. Though damp and stained with nitre, it was obviously of much more recent construction than anything we had previously encountered. Glancing round at us, William Cowath handed me the torch. "Keep a good hold on it, if you please. I have candles, but--"