ut at my fingers and toes. I thought of
my brave new brother, who would fight ten gipsy men to save me if he
only knew; and then I wanted to cry.

But that would be the silliest thing I could do. Soon they would begin
to look for me (oh, how furious Lady Turnour would be that I should dare
keep her waiting, and at the fuss about a servant!) and if I screamed at
the top of my voice maybe some one would hear.

I took a long breath, and gave vent to a blood-curdling shriek which
would have made the fortune of an actress on the stage. Odd! I couldn't
help thinking of that at the time. One thinks of queer things at the
most inappropriate moments.

It was a glorious howl, but the rock walls seemed to catch it as a
battledore catches a shuttlecock, and send it bounding back to me. I
knew then that a cry from those depths would not carry far; and the fear
at my heart gave a sharp, rat-like bite.

If I could scramble up! I thought; and promptly tried.

It looked almost easy; but for me it was impossible. A very tall woman
might have done it, perhaps, but I have only five foot four in my
Frenchiest French heels; and the broken-off place was higher than my
waist. With good hand-hold I might have dragged myself up, but the steps
above did not come at the right height to give me leverage; and always,
though I tried again and again, till my cut hands bled, I couldn't climb
up. And how silly it seemed, the whole thing! I was just like a young
fly that had come buzzing and bumbling round an ugly old spider's web,
too foolish to know that it was a web. And even now how lightly the
fly's feet were entangled! A spring, and I should be out of prison.

"Oh, the little more, and how much it is!
And the little less, and what worlds away!"

The words came and spoke themselves in my ears, as if they were
determined to make me cry.

I was desperately frightened and homesick--homesick even for Lady
Turnour. I should have felt like kissing the hem of her dress if I could
only have seen her now--and I wasn't able to smile when I thought what a
rage she'd be in if I did it. She would have me sent off to an insane
asylum: but even that would be much gayer and more homelike than an
underground cellar in the Ghost City of Les Baux.

Dear old Sir Samuel, with his nice red face! I almost loved him. The car
seemed like a long-lost aunt. And as for the chauffeur, my brother--I
found that I dared not think of him. As in my imagination I sa