He looked at the water curiously, and dabbled his fingers in the brackish fluid. Suddenly a pain in his hand made him draw it out quickly, and by the light of the lantern he saw it was covered with blood. As he wiped it clean he saw the impression of two teeth on his first and third fingers. Slowly his lips moved and he murmured—“There is animal life in this river then—I wonder whither it leads—can there be humanity near too?”
His lantern was nearly out, and by its dying rays he tried frantically to fashion himself a raft, upon which he could trust himself to the waters. A trolley, smashed by the force of the explosion, lay near him. The wheels had been wrenched off and it was all in pieces. He looked at it carefully. The bottom piece was intact with half of one end still in position. He examined it critically. Would it float? Well he must risk that. He thought it would, and the end piece would serve as a hold to keep him on safely.
He was feeling faint—he ate the remains of his food, and with a reverent glance at the place where Daniels lay, he pushed the plank out on to the seething waters. Lightly he jumped on it himself, and, with a tight grip on the projecting pieces of wood, gave himself up to the mercy of the torrent.
His lantern went out; the darkness was intense; there was no sound but the lashing of the waters and the drumming of the raft against the sides of the tunnel. The current was swifter than anything he had ever known. The water just tore along at a breakneck speed, lashed over the frail raft and drenched Alan to the skin. He was faint. In a dim way he thought of his life—how empty it had been. Where was Desmond—and Uncle John? Cambridge came before his eyes, and he could almost see the serene picture of the “backs” with their quaint bridges and fields beyond.
He felt stiff. Mechanically he held on to the raft, even when his senses left him; and the frail wood with its worn burden of humanity, rushed on, down into the depths, carried by the river that was descending lower and lower through the earth.
Suddenly the raft gave a still more violent jerk, and Alan awoke to life once more. The rapids were over at last, and he was drifting along in waters that were as sluggish now as before they had been fast.
The tunnel widened, and he was aware that the intense blackness had gone, and in its place there was a purplish light that was soothing to his aching eyes. As the tunnel began to widen out, a path branched off at either side of the water.
The raft drifted on and at last found a harbour in a little, natural bay hollowed out in the bank. Alan stepped on land at last, his senses reeling. He had no idea of the time that had passed since he first started on that strange journey, and he felt hungry, weak and tired.
Slowly he walked along the river bank, and the purple lights grew stronger—then voices came upon his ear, and as he eagerly bent forward toward the unknown that faced him, above in Marshfielden, the clergyman was saying—
“And for the soul of Alan Forsyth—lately dead.”