IV
The Attack on the Well
During the night the water rose twenty feet.
It went against the grain to post two sentries, when with twelve, or even ten arms we might have had the well empty by four o’clock. But to be surprised at such gruelling labour would have meant for us the end of everything; for, shaken and stripped and breathless, we could have put up no fight, and, except for the parapet of the well, there was no cover to hand.
Still, it seemed very likely that four of us, working hard, would be able to draw so much water before the sun went down that, with the help of the stage, we should find the mouth of the shaft. And, once we knew on which side of the well that lay, though the springs should deny us passage, at least we should have a second string to our bow.
With this object, we laboured till lunchtime, like men possessed—at least, Mansel and the servants laboured, whilst I sat above on the peak with a rifle across my knees. Hanbury was at the shrine.
At one Rowley took my place, and Carson Hanbury’s.
This relief had not long been done, and we were at lunch in the meadow, when—as Hanbury had told us would happen, for he had seen him en route—the landlord of the inn arrived.
As he emerged from the wood, he looked around him, and, when he saw us at meat, he threw up his hands.
I made sure, as did Mansel, that Rose Noble was dead, but it soon appeared that the fellow was only distressed to find that our zeal to attempt to empty the well was unabated.
“Sirs,” he cried, bubbling, “it is dreadful to see you so bent upon so hopeless a task. You are killing yourselves in vain. I have sought everywhere for helpers, but, when I tell them for what their help is required, they laugh me to scorn. You will not get a man in all Carinthia. And the trout lie in the streams about you, thick as autumn leaves.”
Mansel laughed.
“The springs are the devil,” he said; “but we haven’t given up hope.”
“Ah, sir,” said the innkeeper, “but listen. You have not begun. You are still dealing with the first spring. When you are twenty feet down—”
“Make it forty,” said Mansel. “To be exact, forty-three.”
Lest he should think we were boasting, we took him to the well and showed him the measuring-line: his amazement was ludicrous, for he seemed unable to speak and gaped upon us as though we were demigods; and such in his sight, I suppose, we were, for in three days we had gone far to shatter a tradition which had endured for a century and a half.
Then Mansel asked him of his guests. Of these he spoke abstractedly, for his mind was full of what we had done with the well; but we learned that Rose Noble was recovered, and that Ellis had come back this morning and taken the three away—he knew not whither, but imagined to Salzburg. They had paid him nothing for their lodging, of which they had constantly complained, but had made him understand that they would come back. What more he said I cannot remember, save that the stores we had ordered were piled by the kitchen door, and after a little he left, still plainly bewildered by the progress which we had made.
I was for instantly withdrawing the two sentinels and making a mighty effort to get the treasure that night, but to this Mansel would not consent, for fear that Rose Noble and Ellis were not gone at all, but had pretended departure in the hope that the news would reach us and throw us off our guard. He suggested, instead, that Hanbury and I should only work for two hours, and should then relieve Carson and Rowley, “for in that way,” he said, “at sundown Carson and Rowley will be done and can go to bed, but you and Hanbury will be as fresh as paint: and, if Bell and I go gently this afternoon, we shall still have something to spare at nine o’clock.”
To Hanbury and me this arrangement seemed more than good, except that we both begged Mansel to give himself a rest. But of this he would not hear. For the next two hours, therefore, we worked as hard as we could, but the honours of that day went to Carson and Rowley, for, while I sat on my hilltop, I could hear them at work, and, knowing how severe was the labour, I would not have believed that two men could maintain the pace they did for nearly five hours.
When I came in at sundown, the two were ready to drop, but they looked very pleased, and Mansel told me with a smile that they had uncovered the shaft.
Half an hour back, he said, the suck and gurgle of air disputing with water had told its tale, and, though to ascend at once might be impossible, enough of the mouth was open for us to survey the shaft.
Then Hanbury and I made haste to fetch the stage, and Carson and Rowley were ordered back to the house. They were reluctant to go, but Mansel was determined that they should have food and rest, “and, if you stay here,” said he, “you will have neither, but will
