long time indeed. So he put his hands and feet to the ladder and began to go up. It was a very long climb. There were three hundred and eight steps, for he counted them. And the steps were only on one side of the ladder, so he had to be extremely careful. On he went, up and on, on and up, till his feet ached and his hands felt as though they would drop off for tiredness. He could not look up far, and he dared not look down at all. There was nothing for it but to climb and climb and climb, and at last he saw the ground on which the ladder rested—a terrace hewn in regular lines, and, as it seemed, hewn from the solid rock. His head was level with the ground, now his hands, now his feet. He leaped sideways from the ladder and threw himself face down on the ground, which was cold and smooth like marble. There he lay, drawing deep breaths of weariness and relief.
There was a great silence all about, which rested and soothed, and presently he rose and looked around him. He was close to an archway with very thick pillars, and he went towards it and peeped cautiously in. It seemed to be a great gate leading to an open space, and beyond it he could see dim piles that looked like churches and houses. But all was deserted; the moonlight and he had the place, whatever it was, to themselves.
“I suppose every one’s in bed,” said Philip, and stood there trembling a little, but very curious and interested, in the black shadow of the strange arch.
CHAPTER II
DELIVERER OR DESTROYER
Philip stood in the shadow of the dark arch and looked out. He saw before him a great square surrounded by tall irregular buildings. In the middle was a fountain whose waters, silver in the moonlight, rose and fell with gentle plashing sound. A tall tree, close to the archway, cast the shadow of its trunk across the path—a broad black bar. He listened, listened, listened, but there was nothing to listen to, except the deep night silence and the changing soft sound the fountain made.
His eyes, growing accustomed to the dimness, showed him that he was under a heavy domed roof supported on large square pillars—to the right and left stood dark doors, shut fast.
“I will explore these doors by daylight,” he said. He did not feel exactly frightened. But he did not feel exactly brave either. But he wished and intended to be brave, so he said, “I will explore these doors. At least I think I will,” he added, for one must not only be brave but truthful.
And then suddenly he felt very sleepy. He leaned against the wall, and presently it seemed that sitting down would be less trouble, and then that lying down would be more truly comfortable. A bell from very, very far away sounded the hour, twelve. Philip counted up to nine, but he missed the tenth bell-beat, and the eleventh and the twelfth as well, because he was fast asleep cuddled up warmly in the thick quilted dressing-gown that Helen had made him last winter. He dreamed that everything was as it used to be before That Man came and changed everything and took Helen away. He was in his own little bed in his own little room in their own little house, and Helen had come to call him. He could see the sunlight through his closed eyelids—he was keeping them closed just for the fun of hearing her try to wake him, and presently he would tell her he had been awake all the time, and they would laugh together about it. And then he awoke, and he was not in his soft bed at home but on the hard floor of a big, strange gate-house, and it was not Helen who was shaking him and saying, “Here—I say, wake up, can’t you,” but a tall man in a red coat; and the light that dazzled his eyes was not from the sun at all, but from a horn lantern which the man was holding close to his face.
“What’s the matter?” said Philip sleepily.
“That’s the question,” said the man in red. “Come along to the guard-room and give an account of yourself, you young shaver.”
He took Philip’s ear gently but firmly between a very hard finger and thumb.
“Leave go,” said Philip, “I’m not going to run away.” And he stood up feeling very brave.
The man shifted his hold from ear to shoulder and led Philip through one of those doors which he had thought of exploring by daylight. It was not daylight yet, and the room, large and bare, with an arch at each end and narrow little windows at the sides, was lighted by horn lanterns and tall tapers in pewter candlesticks. It seemed to Philip that the room was full of soldiers.
Their captain, with a good deal of gold about him and a very smart black moustache, got up from a bench.
“Look what I’ve caught, sir,” said the man who owned the hand on Philip’s shoulder.
“Humph,” said the captain, “so it’s really happened at last.”
“What has?” said Philip.
“Why, you have,” said the captain. “Don’t be frightened, little man.”
“I’m not frightened,” said Philip, and added politely, “I should be so much obliged if you’d tell me what you mean.” He added something which he had heard people say when they asked the way to the market or the public gardens, “I’m quite a stranger here,” he said.
A jolly roar of laughter went up from the red-coats.
“It isn’t manners to laugh at strangers,” said Philip.
“Mind your own manners,” said the captain sharply; “in this country little boys speak when they’re spoken to. Stranger, eh? Well, we knew that, you know!”
Philip, though he felt snubbed, yet felt grand too. Here he was in the middle of an adventure with grown-up soldiers. He threw out his chest and tried to look manly.
The captain sat down in a chair at the end of a long table, drew a black book to him—a black book covered with dust—and began to rub a rusty pen-nib on his sword, which was not rusty.
“Come now,” he said, opening the book, “tell me how you came here. And mind you speak the truth.”
“I always speak the truth,” said Philip proudly.
All the soldiers rose and saluted him with looks of deep surprise and respect.
“Well, nearly always,” said Philip, hot to the ears, and the soldiers clattered stiffly down again on to the benches, laughing once more. Philip had imagined there to be more discipline in the army.
“How did you come here?” said the captain.
“Up the great bridge staircase,” said Philip.
The captain wrote busily in the book.
“What did you come for?”
“I didn’t know what else to do. There was nothing but illimitable prairie—and so I came up.”
“You are a very bold boy,” said the captain.
“Thank you,” said Philip. “I do want to be.”
“What was your purpose in coming?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose—I just happened to come.”
The captain wrote that down too. And then he and Philip and the soldiers looked at each other in silence.
“Well?” said the boy.
“Well?” said the captain.
“I do wish,”
