“’Tis my head that aches,” answer’d the girl. The men finish’d their drink, and saunter’d out. I crept from under the counter, and look’d at her. “Father’ll kill me for this!” “Then you shall say—Is it forward or back I must go?” “Neither.” She pull’d up a trap close beside her feet, and pointed out a ladder leading down to the darkness. “The courts are full of troopers,” she added. “The cellar?” She nodded. “Quick! There’s a door at the far end. It leads to the crypt of St. John’s Chapel. You’ll find the key beside it, and a lantern. Here is flint and steel.” She reach’d them down from a shelf beside her. “Crouch down, or they’ll spy you through the window. From the crypt a passage takes you to the governor’s house. How to escape then, God knows! ’Tis the best I can think on.” I thank’d her, and began to step down the ladder. She stood for a moment to watch, leaving the trap open for better light. Between the avenue of casks and bins I stumbled toward the door and lantern that were just to be discern’d at the far end of the cellar. As I struck steel on flint, I heard the trap close: and since then have never set eyes on that kind-hearted girl. The lantern lit, I took the key and fitted it to the lock. It turned noisily, and a cold whiff of air struck my face. Gazing round this new chamber, I saw two lines of squat pillars, supporting a low arch’d roof. ’Twas the crypt beneath the chapel, and smelt vilely. A green moisture trickled down the pillars, and dripp’d on the tombs beneath them. At the end of this dreary place was a broken door, consisting only of a plank or two, that I easily pull’d away: and beyond, a narrow passage, over which I heard the tread of troopers plainly, as they pac’d to and fro; also the muffled note of the clock, sounding seven. The passage went fairly straight, but was block’d here and there with fallen stones, over which I scrambled as best I could. And then, suddenly I was near pitching down a short flight of steps. I held the lantern aloft and look’d. At the steps’ foot widen’d out a low room, whereof the ceiling, like that of the crypt, rested on pillars. Between these, every inch of space was pil’d with barrels, chests, and great pyramids of round shot. In each corner lay a heap of rusty pikes. Of all this the signification was clear. I stood in the munition room of the Castle. But what chiefly took my notice was a great door, studded with iron nails, that barr’d all exit from the place. Over the barrels I crept toward it, keeping the lantern high, in dread of firing any loose powder. ’Twas fast lock’d. I think that, for a moment or two, I could have wept. But in a while the thought struck me that with the knife in my pocket ’twas possible to cut away the wood around the lock. “Courage!” said I: and pulling it forth, knelt down to work.