"And no wonder. 'Tis hardly an every-day occurrence to ride an
underground river several miles under the Andes. Above us a
mountain four miles high, beneath us a bottomless lake, round us
darkness. Not a very cheerful prospect, Hal; but, thank Heaven,
we take it together! It is a grave--ours and hers. I guess
Desiree knew what she was talking about."
There came a cry from Harry's lips--a cry of painful memory:
"Desiree! I had forgotten, Desiree!"
"She is probably better off than we are," I assured him.
I felt his gaze--I could not see it--and I continued:
"We may as well meet the thing squarely like men. Pull yourself
together, Harry; as for Desiree, let us hope that she is dead.
It's the best thing that could happen to her."
"Then we are--no, it isn't possible."
"Harry boy, we're buried alive! There! That's the worst of it.
Anything better than that is velvet."
"But there must be a way out, Paul! And Desiree--Desiree--"
His voice faltered. I clapped him roughly on the shoulder.
"Keep your nerve. As for a way out--at the rate that stream
descends it must have carried us thousands of feet beneath the
mountain.
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