"You've looked in there, I suppose?"
"In there? What would be the good? It's not above a dozen yards thick, though so dense; if she were alive in there she'd have heard us long ago; if she's dead she's in the sea. Why do you ask?"
"I thought I heard something. That was all."
They moved on a few yards.
"I say, Mr. Kitto, I do hear something! Listen, sir—listen to that!"
They heard the voice distinctly, faint and feeble though it was.
"I am dying!" it moaned. "Oh, Denis, where are you?"
Mr. Kitto almost choked.
"Thank God—but if she does die!" he croaked and whispered in one breath. "We're coming! We're coming, my dear, dear young lady! But," in his whisper, "who's that hobbling toward us—dot-and-carry-one? It's Dent, man, it's Dent himself; go and tell him like a good fellow—only don't raise too much hope." And deeply agitated, the squatter thrust his lantern among the outer branches of the thicket.
In an instant came the faint voice, immeasurably stronger, and poignant with a nameless agony: