Читать книгу A West Point Treasure; Or, Mark Mallory's Strange Find онлайн

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“Come on!” he cried. “Follow me!”

Texas was clutching the revolver, a desperate look upon his face; the others, horrified though they were, sprang forward to his side ready to dare anything for the sake of Mark.

But there was no need of their entering. As the light shone in the whole scene was plainly in view. And the six stared with ever-increasing awe. Leaning against the wall, where he had staggered back, was Mark; his face was as white as a sheet; one trembling hand was raised, pointing across the compartment. And the rest followed the direction with their eyes, and then started back in no less horror, their faces even paler than his. Lying flat upon the floor, shining out in the blackness white and distinct and ghastly, their hollow eyes fixed in a death stare upon the roof, were six horrible, grinning skeletons.

Awe-stricken, those reckless plebes stood motionless, gazing upon the scene. They were too dumfounded to say a word, almost to think. And then suddenly, as one man, moved by a single impulse, they faced about and stole silently out of the place. The iron door clanged once more, and then, still silent, the plebes marched in Indian file down the long corridor to where the sunlight streamed in; helped each other out through the narrow opening; and finally, free at last, drew a long breath of inexpressible relief under the clear blue sky of heaven.