He hurried up the stairs in the darkness without any hesitation, because every step was familiar, and after he had mounted a dozen he threw some light on the stone staircase to show the others where to go. From this point they mounted the remaining steps, both lanterns showing light, and those who followed him watched in wonder. The staircase had its way in solid masonry. Here and there were slits in the walls, just wide enough for a man's head to fit in, but too narrow even for a child to enter, and each slit was eight or ten feet deep, perhaps more. "Where are we?" asked Herman, looking about him. "You shall see presently," was the lightly spoken answer. Heinrich was exuberant. Whether danger had passed or not, the others could not say, but his gay spirits, in contrast to his previous care, gave them confidence, and they followed him without hesitation. At the top of the steps he turned into a room, so small that a tall man could hardly lie full length upon the floor, while the place itself was hemmed in by, or formed a part of, some solid masonry. In one side of the room was a window, broad enough even for a man of Otto Engel's proportions to crawl through, but to pass through it was impossible, for there were bars from top to bottom, and bars crossed these from right to left. "What's next?" asked the forester, who had gently placed Margaret's mother on the stone floor, and now stood panting with his struggle against the storm when so heavily burdened. "We're going through that window," said Heinrich, with quiet assurance and a contented smile on his face. "Art mad?" cried Engel, staring at the bars and then at their guide. "Who could get through that window with those irons crossed like that?" he asked almost angrily, half disposed to think that this poor madman had duped them and had brought them here to no purpose, unless to hide and starve, unless he could bring them food. Heinrich laughed outright, and rubbed his hands. "I thought you would say as much," he answered gleefully. "But wait. Have patience, and ere many minutes have gone you shall be outside the city." He was serious now, and they watched him wonderingly, still thinking him mad. He went out of the room, and they heard his boots beating on the stone steps as he clattered down them in the darkness. A suspicion came that he had served them treacherously and had gone away, leaving them in this empty house, which might, for aught they knew, be some part of the Holy House, and this one of the dens in which some poor prisoner would sigh out his hours, by day and night, until the tormentors chose to deal with him. Even Herman and Engel felt their faces blench as this thought thrilled them, and Margaret, who feared as much as they, put her hand in Herman's arm and drew closer to him.