“Of course I’m not afraid,” I said, for I always have been ashamed of my fear of the dark, and have forced myself to fight against it.  “If the rosary is at the foot of the staircase I’ll try and get it for you, but I won’t go any farther.”

Her corner was close by the opening where more steps were cut into the rock.  I could see the bottom, I thought, and started down quickly, because I was in a hurry to come back and be on my way home—­to the Aigle.

Six, seven steps, and then—­crash! down I came on my hands and knees.

Oh, how it hurt!  And how it made my head ring!  Fireworks went off before my eyes, and I felt stupid, inclined to lie still.  But suddenly the idea flashed into my brain, like lightning darting among dark clouds, that the old woman had made me do this thing on purpose.  She had played me a trick—­and if she had, she must have some bad reason for doing it.  Those two sons of hers!  I scrambled up, shocked and jarred by the fall, my hands and knees smarting as if they were skinned.

“I’ve fallen down,” I cried.  “Do you hear?”

No answer.

I called again.  It was as still as a grave up above.  It seemed to me that it could not be so unnaturally, so inhumanly still, if there were a living, breathing creature there.  I was sure now that the horrible old thing had known what would happen, had wanted it to happen, and had gone hobbling away to fetch her wicked gipsy sons.  How she had looked at my poor little purse!  How she had looked at Pamela’s watch!

I saw now how it was that I had been so stupid.  The dim light from above had lain on the last step and made it appear as if the floor were near; but there was a gap between the stairway and the bottom of the cellar.  The lower steps had been hewn away—­perhaps in a quest for the ever-elusive treasure.  Maybe a crack had appeared, and people, always searching, had suspected a secret opening and tried to find it.  Anyway, there was the gap, and there was a rough pile of broken stone not far off, which had once been the end of the rocky stairway.  It was lucky that I hadn’t struck my forehead against it in falling—­the only bit of luck which the fortune-teller had brought me!

As it was, I was not seriously hurt.  Perhaps I had torn my dress, and I should certainly have to buy a new pair of gloves, whether I could afford them or not; otherwise I didn’t think I should suffer, except for a few black-and-blue patches.  But how was I to get out of this dark hole?  That was the question.  I was too hot with anger against the sly old fox of a woman, who had pretended that she wanted to say her prayers, to feel the chill of fear; but I couldn’t help understanding that she had got me into this trap with the object of annexing my watch and purse or anything else of value.  Perhaps the gipsy sons would rob me first, and then murder me, rather than I should live to tell; but if they meant to do that they would have to come and be at it soon, or I should be missed and sought.