Iron staples had been driven into crevices in the rock. That was how Manack had got across. No goblins. No piskies. Just solid iron staples. They seemed to bring a breath of sanity into that dank place. I went across then, holding my torch in my mouth and clutching to hand-holds with my belly flat against the slimy rock as my feet sought and found each staple, testing it before venturing my full weight on it.
But I was very thankful when I was across that gap and in the gallery beyond. I went on then. There was no light ahead now. A piece of rock fell out of the wall as I steadied myself against it. I shone my torch on the roof. The rock was no longer granite. It was softer and there were great gaps in it and crevices. More and more often my feet stumbled against broken chunks of it. It was a piece of bad country. Shortly afterwards I came to a fall, blocking the gallery. It was an old fall and the rock was so soft that the water pouring over it had moulded it into one slimy mass. The roof was higher here and a ledge in the left-hand wall ran back and up to a dark cleft. I climbed this and instantly saw Manack's lamp shining on the walls. Again I had the feeling he had been waiting for me The rock was granite again now and so low that I was bent almost double. It led to a place where several galleries met. They were all of them little wider than clefts. I plunged on after Manack's light. I was scared now of losing touch with it. This part of the mine seemed honeycombed. Every now and then I was passing openings in the rock — cross-cuts, winzes, raises, galleries — all higgledy-piggledy, the way the ore had been ripped out of the mine. And they all looked so much alike.
Twice I took a wrong tunnel, turned back and found Manack's lamp still quite near to the point where I had mislaid my way. I became obsessed with this idea that he was waiting for me, that he wanted me to follow him. And every time I thought of having to find my own way back, I broke out into a sweat of fear. I tried desperately to retain in my mind a mental impression of each new gallery, each turn and twist. But there were so many of them. It was utterly impossible. Not only that. I had to concentrate on following the dim light of the lamp ahead. And whilst hurrying, at the same time to test the ground under each foot.
I crawled through a long tunnel not three feet high. I was then only a few yards behind Manack. Some trick of the mine brought a fresh wind blowing up this tunnel and with it came the sound of the sea. The tunnel emerged into a narrow gallery. It was so narrow that at times I had to edge along it sideways. A part of the roof had come away in one place. And when I had scrambled over the fall, black darkness faced me. I switched on my torch and hurried after Manack. The tunnel climbed steadily, twisting and turning. There was no light ahead. All I had was the red glow from between my fingers. Here and there cross-cuts shot off at right angles. I kept on, going faster, becoming less cautious of the ground underfoot. I had to catch up with Manack.
Then suddenly the gallery ended. It was a fall. A bad one by the look of it. I shone my torch into the hole in the ceiling, blinking in the sudden glare of the naked beam. There seemed to be a dark hole. I scrambled up, thrusting myself right into the jaws of the fallen roof. But there was no opening. It had only been a shadow etching the face of the rock black. There was no way on along that gallery. A rock gave beneath my weight and I slid down the face of the fall, dropping my torch and skinning my hands.
In the sudden darkness I searched feverishly for my torch. All my hands encountered were cold rock and thick, clinging mud. God, I mustn't lose my torch. Supposing the bulb had broken. Why hadn't I brought a miner's lamp? A miner's lamp would last longer than a torch. It couldn't get broken. I knelt down on the floor, cursing, almost crying, whilst my hands searched frantically. Then I remembered my matches. Of course, I'd got my matches. Hell, what was I panicking for? I got a grip of myself. I felt the conscious power of my will loose the tension of my nerves. I realised that I was practically sobbing for breath as I put my hand in my jacket pocket. The matches rattled comfortingly in the box.
I struck one. The little yellow flare of light was like a beacon of safety. The torch had rolled farther down the gallery than the spot at which I had been searching. Its chromium-plated case twinkled as though hugging itself with laughter. I picked it up and thrust forward the switch. The beam shone out as bright as ever. I gave a gasp of relief.
Then I turned in sudden renewed fear and hurried back down that twisting, sloping gallery. I had to find Manack. I didn't know my way out. I knew I couldn't remember the twists and turns I'd come. I didn't even know what part of the mine I was in. All I knew was that I was in the old workings. I might wander here for days. Surely Manack would wait for me? He'd waited each time before. Or had I been wrong? Perhaps he hadn't any idea I was behind him. I rammed my head against a buttress of rock and cried out with the blinding pain. But I didn't stop. I peered up each narrow cleft that led off the gallery I was in. Some were cross-cuts. Others were just clefts that finished in nothing. In none of them did I catch sight of the friendly glow of Manack's lamp. I came to a fork. I couldn't remember it. I took the right-hand gallery. Before I'd gone twenty paces I was certain I hadn't come that way. I went back and tried the left. Again I was certain it wasn't the one I had come down. I stopped then. I was panting heavily. I must get a grip on myself. I had been wrong about Manack. He hadn't been waiting for me. It was all imagination. Why the hell had I come? And then a new thought struck me. Suppose Manack had known I was following him? Suppose he had led me up into these old workings on purpose? What a way to finish a man! What a perfect way to kill me — to lead me up here into this rabbit warren and then abandon me! Those stories I'd heard of the Roman catacombs. I remembered the priest who had taken me over the Santo Calisto — thirty-nine miles of underground passages, tier on tier of them, and all along the walls the niches where Rome's Christians had been buried in the early days of the persecution. I could see that priest, the lighted taper shining on his dark, foreign face and upstarting, wiry hair, as he backed away from us down gallery after gallery. He had told us that there were still galleries the monks had not explored, that Germans seeking escape after the fall of Rome had forced their way into the catacombs and never come out. That priest had scared me. And when at the top I had asked what nationality he was, for he did not speak with an Italian accent, he had smiled and said German.
I cursed out loud. I must stop myself thinking of things like that. I must get a grip on myself. I took a deep breath and held it, stopping my panting. Manack must be about here somewhere. I called him by name. I shouted at the top of my voice. But all that happened was that the sound of my voice came back to me as a hollow, muffled echo. I tried again. Again I heard my voice come whispering back along the galleries long after I had ceased to call. And then something like a laugh sounded. But it was just a trick of my imagination. It came again, a rustling, cackling noise. With it came a draught of air. Probably it was the sound of the sea wandering along the galleries.
The sea! I pulled myself together then and switched off my torch. I had to conserve the battery. No use wasting it whilst I stood still, thinking. And I must think. I must reason this out. I mustn't panic. I was a miner, not a kid going underground for the first time.
I turned about in the darkness, searching for the direction of that faint breath of air that stirred along the gallery. It took me back towards the fall of rock. I followed it into a cross-cut. The cross-cut was low. I had to crawl through on hands and knees. The breeze was stronger in this narrow tunnel. I could feel it cool on my face. It smelt dank and salt. The tunnel opened out again and then descended steeply. Soon I was scrambling over fallen rock down an almost vertical funnel with water pouring between my legs, soaking me to the waist. It levelled out again I could hear the sea now. The feint gurgle and lap of water came to me on the breeze which was strong and fresh.