lence which surrounded him,
he heard still the same dull, trickling sound he had observed before;
and now the matter was clear to him. Now, indeed, he comprehended all
the horrors of his situation: the cave was filling with water, arising
from the fearful and formidable overflowing of the Seine,--the dungeon
in which he had been thrown was doubtless beneath the level of the
river, and was chosen by his gaolers for that purpose, as offering a
slow though certain means of destruction.

The conviction of his danger recalled Rodolph entirely to himself. Quick
as lightning he made his way up the damp, slippery stairs; arrived at
the top, he came in contact with a thick door; he tried in vain to open
it,--its massy hinges resisted his most vigorous efforts to force them.

At this moment of despair and danger, his first thought was for Murphy.
"If he be not on his guard, those monsters will murder him!" cried he.
"It will be I who shall have caused his death,--my good, my faithful
Murphy!" This cruel thought nerved the arm of Rodolph with fresh vigour,
and again he bent his most powerful energy to endeavour to force the
ponderous door. Alas! the thickly plated iron with which it was covered
mocked his utmost efforts; and sore, weary, and exhausted, he was
compelled to relinquish the fruitless task. Again he descended into the
cave, in hopes of obtaining something which might serve as a lever to
force the hinges or wrench the fastenings. Groping against the slimy
walls, he felt himself continually treading on some sort of round
elastic bodies, which appeared to slip from under his feet, and to
scramble for safety past him. They were rats, driven by the fast-rising
water from their retreats. Groping about the place on all fours, with
the water half way up his leg, Rodolph felt in all directions for the
weapon he so much desired to find; nothing but the damp walls met his
touch, however, and, in utter despair, he resumed his position at the
top of the steps,--of the thirteen stairs which composed the flight,
three were already under water.

Thirteen had ever been Rodolph's unlucky number. There are moments when
the strongest minds are under the influence of superstitious ideas, and,
at this juncture, Rodolph viewed the fatal amount of stairs as an ill
augury. Again the possible fate of Murphy recurred to him, and, as if
inspired by a fresh hope, he eagerly felt around the door to discover
some slight chink, or opening, by which