We had been brought to some kind of house and bundled into a place like a wine-cellar.

It was pitch dark, and after feeling round the walls, first on my feet and then on Peter's back, I decided that there were no windows.

It must have been lit and ventilated by some lattice in the ceiling.

There was not a stick of furniture in the place: nothing but a damp earth floor and bare stone sides, The door was a relic of the Iron Age, and I could hear the paces of a sentry outside it.
When things get to the pass that nothing you can do can better them, the only thing is to live for the moment.

All three of us sought in sleep a refuge from our empty stomachs.