Part 35 (1/2)

”Would it no be best for us all tae keep silence for a matter o' ten minutes,” suggested Wilkie, ”and pit up a bit prayer each of his ain, we bein' no all of the same way of thinkin' in these matters? That gate, wi' so many prayers o' different denominations goin' up, yin at least should get gettin' through the roof of the pit. Are ye agreed, chaps?”

”Ay, ay!” said Entwistle.

The others all murmured a.s.sent, save Master Hopper, who shrieked out in sudden fear. The proximity of death had become instantly and dreadfully apparent to him on Mr Wilkie's suggestion. Carthew reached out and pulled him to his side.

”Come over here, by me,” he said.

Master Hopper, greatly soothed, crept close, and settled down contentedly enough with an arm round Carthew's shoulders. Presently Carthew heard him repeating The Lord's Prayer to himself in a low and respectful whisper.

The silence lasted longer than ten minutes. For one thing, the supplicants were exhausted in body, soul, and spirit, and their orisons came slowly. For another, there was no need to hurry. For nearly an hour no one spoke.

At length some one sat up in the darkness, and the voice of Atkinson inquired--

”Mr Carthew, sir, I think a song of praise would hearten us all.”

”I believe it would,” said Carthew. He was not enamoured of the corybantic hymnology of the Salvation Army, but the horror of black darkness was beginning to eat into his soul, and he knew that the others were probably in a worse plight. ”What shall we sing?”

”At the meeting where I were saved,” said Atkinson deferentially, ”we concluded wors.h.i.+p by singing a hymn I have never forgotten since: _Hold the Fort!_”

”That sounds a good one,” said Carthew, struggling with an unreasonable sensation of being in the chair at a smoking-concert.

”Does any one else here know _Hold the Fort!_?”

Yes, Entwistle knew it. Master Hopper had heard it. Mr Wilkie had not.

He did not hold with hymns: even paraphrases were not, in his opinion, altogether free from the taint of Popery. If it had been one of the Psalms of David, now! Still, he would join. Denton knew no hymns, but was willing to be instructed in this one.

Atkinson, trembling with gratification, slowly rehea.r.s.ed the words, the others repeating them after him.

”We will sing it now,” he said.

He raised the tune in a clear tenor. Most north-countrymen are musicians by instinct. In a few moments this grim prison was flooded by a wave of sonorous melody. The simple, vulgar, taking tune swelled up; the brave homely words rang out, putting new heart into every one.

Each and all joyfully realised that there are worse ways of going to one's death than singing a battle-song composed by Moody and Sankey.

With drawn white faces upturned to the heaven they could not see they sang on, flinging glorious defiance into the very teeth of Death--gentleman and pitman, Church and Chapel, zealot and infidel.

”Last verse again!” commanded Atkinson.

”Wait a moment!” cried Entwistle, starting up.

But no one heard him. The chorus was rolling out once more--

”_Hold the Fort, for I am coming_----”

Tap, tap, tap! Sc.r.a.pe, sc.r.a.pe, sc.r.a.pe! Hammer, hammer, hammer!

The hymn paused, wavered, and stopped dead on the final shout.

”By G.o.d!” screamed a voice--it was Denton's--”here they are!”