“Follow me, who can!” he bounded across the corridor in the direction of the antique apartment, from whence the cries proceeded, but which were now hushed. That house was built for strength, and the doors were all of oak, and of considerable thickness. Unhappily, they had fastenings within, so that when the man reached the chamber of her who so much required help, he was helpless, for the door was fast. “Flora! Flora!” he cried; “Flora, speak!” All was still. “Good God!” he added; “we must force the door.” “I hear a strange noise within,” said the young man, who trembled violently. “And so do I. What does it sound like?” “I scarcely know; but it nearest resembles some animal eating, or sucking some liquid.” “What on earth can it be? Have you no weapon that will force the door? I shall go mad if I am kept here.” “I have,” said the young man. “Wait here a moment.” He ran down the staircase, and presently returned with a small, but powerful, iron crow-bar. “This will do,” he said. “It will, it will.—Give it to me.” “Has she not spoken?” “Not a word. My mind misgives me that something very dreadful must have happened to her.” “And that odd noise!” “Still goes on. Somehow, it curdles the very blood in my veins to hear it.” The man took the crow-bar, and with some difficulty succeeded in introducing it between the door and the side of the wall—still it required great strength to move it, but it did move, with a harsh, crackling sound. “Push it!” cried he who was using the bar, “push the door at the same time.” The younger man did so. For a few moments the massive door resisted. Then, suddenly, something gave way with a loud snap—it was a part of the lock,—and the door at once swung wide open. How true it is that we measure time by the events which happen within a given space of it, rather than by its actual duration. To those who were engaged in forcing open the door of the antique chamber, where slept the young girl whom they named Flora, each moment was swelled into an hour of agony; but, in reality, from the first moment of the alarm to that when the loud cracking noise heralded the destruction of the fastenings of the door, there had elapsed but very few minutes indeed. “It opens—it opens,” cried the young man. “Another moment,” said the stranger, as he still plied the crowbar—“another moment, and we shall have free ingress to the chamber. Be patient.” This stranger’s name was Marchdale; and even as he spoke, he succeeded in throwing the massive door wide open, and clearing the passage to the chamber. To rush in with a light in his hand was the work of a moment to the young man named Henry; but the very rapid progress he made into the apartment prevented him from observing accurately what it contained, for the wind that came in from the open window caught the flame of the candle, and although it did not actually extinguish it, it blew it so much on one side, that it was comparatively useless as a light.