"Yes," I said. "It is like Krok. It is very wonderful--running like that
all through, the ages--since the cave was made anyway--very wonderful."

She stooped to dip her hand and taste it, and then drew back.

"It looks as if it would bite," she said, and I took off the lid of the can
and scooped up a draught and drank it.

"The sweetest water I ever tasted, and cold as ice. It is as good as the
water at La Tour."

Then she drank also, and then she washed out the milk-can, but would not
pour the dirty water back into the basin. "It would be an offence," she
said simply, and I felt the same.

Then we left our can there and went on along the cleft, which grew narrower
and narrower till we could only go singly. And so we came at last into a
sound of waters in front, and going cautiously, found ourselves in a
somewhat wider place, with dull waves tumbling hollowly at our feet.

Carette crept to my side, and I held the lantern up and out, but we could
see only a rough, black-arched roof and ragged rock walls, and a welter of
black waves which broke sullenly against the shelving path on which we
stood, as though driven in there against their will.

"This is the water-cave Uncle George spoke of, but I don't see any light."

"Perhaps it's night outside," said Carette in a whisper. "Let us get back,
Phil. I don't like this place. The waves look as if they were dead."