GHOSTS AND SPIES.

SOMEWHERE about twelve o'clock one night, Davey awoke quite suddenly from a deep and dreamless sleep. Strange sounds were in his ears, and a feeling of dread and sinking lay like a dead weight at his heart.

Around him all was dark, and through the narrow entrance to his tiny cell, he could perceive nothing. But sundry horrible and unaccountable noises were rudely breaking the silence of Hoyle's Mouth, and setting the lad's pulses beating hard and fast, till he felt sick and faint with their throbbing. Yes, there could be no doubt about it now; these were precisely the sounds of which the villagers had spoken; they had not lied—the place was really haunted. Hark! Yes—there were the doleful cries and howls that he and Tom had heard described; and the demoniac laughter in wild, mad bursts, and the rattling of fetters and chains, and the heavy blows—muffled as though by distance—but distinct notwithstanding, and followed by grievous shrieks and groans.

There could be nothing human in such a din as this, Davey thought. Surely nothing but ghosts, and very unhappy ghosts too, could give vent to such sounds as these! Quaking and trembling, Davey listened breathlessly.

The noises went on for a few minutes more, and then died away. But the boy fancied that at intervals still he could catch yet fainter and further sounds of rumbling and creaking, with shuffling as of several feet on a stone floor.

He lay there, afraid to move, shaking with fear and horror, and his teeth chattering with cold; for the autumn nights were growing chill, and he had nothing to cover him—exposed there on the bare rock—but his jacket.

Suddenly, however, he started up into a sitting posture, and began to sniff the air. Could it be? Was he not mistaken? No, there was a faint smell of smoke—wood smoke.

"Queer ghosts these!" said the boy to himself, plucking up courage as the homely, familiar odour, bringing back so many memories, pleasant and painful, filled his nostrils. "I never heard of them making fires, but maybe Welsh ghosts are chillier than others. I'm sure I'm cold enough for a Welsh ghost myself, and I only wish I could warm myself at that fire."

Davey sat quite still for a minute or so, thinking matters over. Then he got up, slipped on his jacket and boots, and peeped cautiously forth from his cell.

All was pitch dark, save where the moonlight, struggling through the tangle of gnarled branches, cast a weird, pale patch of light just across the threshold of Hoyle's Mouth, a wan radiance that left the rest of the outer cave in yet deeper shadow.

As Davey stood then, peering round-eyed into the darkness, he heard a whisper, and presently Tom stood beside him.

"Awake, Davey? Did you hear the row? What about that smoke? A cave can't be set afire like a ship's hold; what do you make of it?"

"I don't know what to make of it," said Davey in a hushed, frightened voice.

"Well, I'm going to have a look, and try and find out where it comes from," said Tom.

"Then I'll go too," said Davey.

And the two lads began to grope their way through the outer chamber of the cave towards a narrow passage, of which the villagers had told them, but which they had never yet found courage to explore.

On they went, but slowly and cautiously, with careful feet, and arms outstretched; for without light, it was not easy to keep from knocking up against the rocky projections in their way.

The smell of the burning wood, though still not strong, grew more distinct as they neared the passage, and it was evident that it came from that direction.

"Here's the entrance," whispered Tom; "the passage is very small, and we'll have to creep through. Now for it! And mind you don't speak once you're in!"

And getting down on his hands and knees, he crept in, followed by Davey.

The passage ended in a tiny chamber some six feet wide, as the boys could tell by a faint glimmer of light that seemed to come from another passage beyond, the entrance of which they could just see before them.

"Do you mean to go any further?" whispered Davey, with his lips close to Tom's ear.

"Why, yes; what's the use of getting so far only to turn back again? I'm not afraid of ghosts, leastways not when they've got light and fire. But you needn't come if you don't want to. You was always a bit of a coward," added Tom, scornfully.

"I'm not a coward, and I'm going if you are," replied Davey, indignantly.

And the two lads entered another long, low passage, down which they crept as before.

As they neared the end of this corridor, they saw whence the light had come that had served to guide their steps for the last part of the way. For through a rough doorway, which was only partially filled up by a wooden shutter laid lightly against the rocky opening, a warm, bright glow streamed forth—a glow of fire and of lamp, and in the air, mingling with the scent of the wood smoke, were the fumes of hot grog and tobacco. Then Tom, who had been creeping along upon hands and knees, raised himself cautiously to a standing posture, on the right side of the doorway, and peeped round the rough wall through the opening between the shutter and the rock into the next cave.

"What is it? Oh, Tom, what is it?" gasped Davey, as he saw his companion's face suddenly change, and his eyes open wide, staring with amazement and fear.

But Tom heard nothing. His attention was concentrated upon the scene before him, and he had eyes and ears for naught else.

"If you won't tell me," whispered Davey, "I'll see for myself."

And standing up on the left of the doorway, he, too, peered in through the wide chink on his side. But at that moment a sudden whiff of pungent smoke caught the boy's nose and throat, and he gave a violent sneeze, followed by a shrill shriek of horror at what he had done.

"Ha! What's that?" bellowed a deep bass voice. "Spies! Spies! Here, my men, ferret the sneaking lubbers out!"

And paralysed with fear, Davey dropped with his face to the ground.