ld Provence, but the story sounded like a beautiful romance; and
then, the guide had added that some people thought the Kabre d'Or, or
Phoenician treasure, was hidden somewhere between Les Baux and the
"Fairy Grotto," or the "Gorge of Hell," near by.

Caves have always had the most extraordinary, magical fascination for
me. When I was a child, I believed that if I could only go into one I
should be allowed to find fairyland; and even in an ordinary, every-day
cellar I was never quite without hope. The smell of a cellar suggested
the most cool, delightful, shadowy mysteries to me, at that time, and
does still.

It was as if the ghostly hand that had been pulling me back, begging me
not to leave Les Baux, led me gently but insistently through the doorway
of the rock house.

It was not yet dark inside. I tiptoed my way through some rough bits of
debris, to the back of the big room, crudely cut out of stone. There
were shelves where the dwellers had set lights or stored provisions, and
there was nothing else to see except a square hole in the floor, below
which a staircase had been hewn. A glimmer of light came up to me, gray
as a bat's wing, and I knew that there must be some opening for
ventilation below.

I felt that I would give anything to go down those rough stone stairs,
only half way down, perhaps; just far enough to see what lay underneath.
It was as if Taven herself had called me, saying: "Come, I have
something to show you."

I put a foot on the first step, then the other foot wanted a chance to
touch the next step, and so on, each demanding its own turn in
fairness. I had gone down eight steps, counting each one, when I heard a
faint rustling noise. I stopped, my heart giving a jump, like a bird in
a cage.

There were no windows in the underground room, which was much smaller
and less regular in shape than the one above, but a faint twilight
seemed to rain down into it in streaks, like spears of rain, and I
guessed that holes had been made in the rock to give light and
ventilation. Something alive was down there, moving. I was frightened; I
hardly dared to look. And I had a nightmare feeling of being struck dumb
and motionless. I tried to turn and run up the stairs but I had to look,
and the gray filtering light struck into a pair of eyes.

CHAPTER XIV

They were great black eyes, sunken into the face of an old woman. She
stood in a corner, and it occurred to me that she had perhaps run there,