l-treated or beaten," she said. "I
tell you, the little black cellar will be a hard thing. Don't go
there!"

And this time Marco said nothing, but looked at her still as if he were
some great young noble who was very proud.

He knew that every word the bearded man had spoken was true. To cry
out would be of no use. If they went away and left him behind them,
there was no knowing how many days would pass before the people of the
neighborhood would begin to suspect that the place had been deserted,
or how long it would be before it occurred to some one to give warning
to the owner. And in the meantime, neither his father nor Lazarus nor
The Rat would have the faintest reason for guessing where he was. And
he would be sitting alone in the dark in the wine-cellar. He did not
know in the least what to do about this thing. He only knew that
silence was still the order.

"It is a jet-black little hole," the man said. "You might crack your
throat in it, and no one would hear. Did men come to talk with your
father in the middle of the night when you were in Vienna?"

"I know nothing," said Marco.

"He won't tell," said the Lovely Person. "I am sorry for this boy."

"He may tell after he has sat in the good little black wine-cellar for
a few hours," said the man with the pointed beard. "Come with me!"

He put his powerful hand on Marco's shoulder and pushed him before him.
Marco made no struggle. He remembered what his father had said about
the game not being a game. It wasn't a game now, but somehow he had a
strong haughty feeling of not being afraid.

He was taken through the hallway, toward the rear, and down the
commonplace flagged steps which led to the basement. Then he was
marched through a narrow, ill-lighted, flagged passage to a door in the
wall. The door was not locked and stood a trifle ajar. His companion
pushed it farther open and showed part of a wine-cellar which was so
dark that it was only the shelves nearest the door that Marco could
faintly see. His captor pushed him in and shut the door. It was as
black a hole as he had described. Marco stood still in the midst of
darkness like black velvet. His guard turned the key.

"The peasants who came to your father in Moscow spoke Samavian and were
big men. Do you remember them?" he asked from outside.

"I know nothing," answered Marco.

"You are a young fool," the voice replied. "And I believe you know
even more than we thought. Your