ght down his
hunger.

Hunger won the day.

Scarlett made a brave fight, but he was weak; and, try how he would, his
hand kept on going to the pocket wallet, and at last he did what was
quite necessary under the circumstances--he ate heartily and well; and
then, with a guilty feeling; troubling him, he yielded to a second
kindly enemy.

The breathing of his two patients was as regular as clockwork, and the
silence and darkness seemed to increase, with the result that they acted
in a strangely lulling way, and with such potency that, after a time,
Scarlett started up, and stared about him at the dense blackness around.

"Have I been to sleep?" he muttered, as he drew himself up a little more
tightly, and prepared to keep his black watch firmly and well to the
end--that is to say, till the time when he would start at dusk for the
Manor.

The next instant he was on his way there, creeping cautiously through
the undergrowth, listening to the crackling of the wood he pressed with
his feet, and finally making his way to the old house, where he was able
to embrace his mother and sister, feeling his cheek wet with their
tears, while Mistress Forrester made him up a basket of dainties, such
as would invite the appetite of a wounded man.

How delightful it all was! only he had to start back so soon, and as he
hurried away, his mother called him back. "Scarlett! Scarlett!" How
the words rang in his ears, as he looked back through the darkness--

Scarlett leaped to his feet, with a feeling of shame and contrition.

"I must have been asleep," he exclaimed; and he listened to the
breathing once more. "And what a vivid dream that was! How real it
seemed!" he added. "I'll go along to the opening, and look out. That
will keep me from going to sleep again."

He started down the steps, and climbed out, wondering whether he had
slept a minute, an hour, or a day, and to his delight he found and took
back with him the provision lately placed there by Fred and Samson.

"Well, we shall not starve," said Scarlett, thankfully, as he began
thinking of his dream; but all the same, the voice which had broken in
upon him calling his name sounded wonderfully real.

CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

SAMSON DISOBEYS ORDERS.

"Ho! Scar!"

No answer.

"Hoi! Scar Markham!"

The second call was louder, and this time Fred Forrester had thrust his
head down the hole, so that his voice went echoing along the passage,
and died away in a whi