Part 46 (1/2)

”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.