Sappers and Miners Part 46

"Yes, make haste," said Gwyn. "We'd better keep straight along here, and stop and shout at every opening or turning."

"Yes, that will be right," said Joe. "Only do keep on. My father is so weak from his illnesses, that I'm afraid he has broken down. I ought not to have let him come."

The words seemed strangely incongruous, and made Gwyn glance at his companion; but it was the tender nurse speaking, who had so often waited upon the Major through his campaign-born illnesses, and there was no call for mirth.

Onward they went along the rugged tunnel, which wound and zigzagged in all directions, the course of the ancient miners having been governed by the track of the lode of tin; and soon after they came to where a vein had run off to their left, and been laboriously cut out with chisel, hammer, and pick.

They shouted till the echoes they raised whispered and died away in the distance; but there was nothing to induce them to stay, and they went on again, to pause directly after by an opening on their right, where they again shouted in turn till they were hoa.r.s.e, and once more went on to find branch after branch running from the main trunk, if main trunk it was; but all efforts were vain, and an hour must have gone by, nearly a quarter of which, at the last, had been here and there along the rugged gallery, without encountering a branch which showed where another vein had been followed.

It was very warm, and the slippery moisture of the place produced a feeling of depression that was fast ripening into despair. At first they had talked a good deal concerning the probabilities of the exploring party coming out into the main trunk from one of the branches they had pa.s.sed, but, as Gwyn said, they dared not reckon upon this, and must keep on now they were there. And at last they went trudging on almost in silence, the tramping of their feet and the quaint echoes being all that was heard, while three black shadows followed after them along the rugged floor, like three more explorers watching to see which way they went.

All at once the silence was broken by Joe, who cried in a sharp, angry way,--

"Stop! Your candle's going out."

Gwyn stopped without turning, opened the door of the lanthorn, and uttered an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.

"Quite true," he said; "burned right down. I'll put in another candle."

The box was opened, a fresh one taken out, its loose wick burned and blown off in sparks, and then it was lit and stuck in the molten grease of the socket.

"You had better have another candle in yours, Dina.s.s," said Joe; and he watched Gwyn's actions impatiently, while the lad carefully trimmed the wick, and waited till the grease of the socket cooled enough to hold the fresh candle firm.

"Now," said Joe, "you ought to give another good shout here before we start again."

There was no reply.

"Well, did you hear what was said?" cried Gwyn, closing and fastening his lanthorn.

Still there was no answer.

"Here, Tom Dina.s.s," cried Gwyn, raising his lanthorn, as he turned to look back; "why don't you do what you're told?"

His answer was a sudden s.n.a.t.c.h at his arm by Joe, who clung to it in a fierce way.

"What's the matter? Aren't you well? Oh, I say, you must hold up now.

Here, Tom Dina.s.s."

"Gone!" gasped Joe, in a low whisper, full of horror.

"Gone? Nonsense! he was here just now."

"No. It's ever so long since he spoke to us. Gwyn, he has gone back and left us."

"Left us? What, alone here!" faltered Gwyn, as the grey, sparkling roof seemed to revolve before his eyes.

"Yes, alone here, Gwyn! Ydoll, old chap, it's horrible. Can we ever find our way back?"

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

TO THE BITTER END.

If ever an awful silence fell upon two unfortunate beings, it was upon those lads, deep down in the strange mazes of the ancient mine. For some moments neither could speak, but each stood gazing at his companion, with the two shadows strangely mingled upon the rugged, faintly-glittering wall.

Joe was the first to speak again, for his pa.s.sionately-uttered question was not answered.

"He warned us to beware of the holes and places, and he must have slipped down one."

"Not he," said Gwyn, bitterly, as he stood scowling into the darkness.

"He warned us when he was making up his mind to hang back and leave us.

A miserable coward!"

"You think that?"

"I'm sure of it. A sneak! A miserable hound! Oh, how could anyone who calls himself a man act like this!"

"Perhaps he is close at hand after all. Let's try," cried Joe, and he uttered a long piercing hail, again and again, but with no other result than to raise the solemn echoes, which sounded awe-inspiring, and so startling, that the lad ceased, and gazed piteously at his companion.

"Feel scared, Joe?" said Gwyn at last.

Joe nodded.

"So do I. It's very cowardly, of course, but the place is so creepy and strange."

"Yes; let's get back. We can't do any more, can we?"

Gwyn made no reply, but stood with his brows knit, staring straight before him into the darkness beyond the dim halo cast by the lanthorn.

"Why don't you speak? Say something," cried Joe, half hysterically; but, though Gwyn's lips moved, no sounds came. "Gwyn!" cried Joe again, "say something. What's the good of us two being mates if we don't try to help each other?"

"I was trying to help you," said Gwyn at last, in a strange voice he hardly knew as his own; "but I was thinking so much I couldn't speak--I couldn't get out a word."

"Well, think aloud. Keep talking, or I shall go mad."

"With fright?" said Gwyn, slowly.

"I don't know what it is, but I feel as if I can't bear it. Say something."

"Well, that's just how I feel, and I want to get over it, but I can't."

There was another pause, and then, as if in a rage with himself, Gwyn burst out,--

"We're not babies just woke up in the dark, and ready to call for our mothers to help us."

"I called for mine to help me, though you could not hear," said Joe, simply; and his words sounded so strangely impressive that Gwyn uttered a sound like a gasp.