But it did not daunt him. Cautiously he crept a little further forward. And now there came a voice from the room behind him, Colonel Bradlaw's voice, harsh with suspense.
"Is the boy dead?"
"Don't know yet, sir," came back the answer. "Will you send a lantern?
Ah! Hullo!"
Something had moved against his foot. Something writhed and groaned.
The searcher stooped. "Hullo!" he said again. "Noel, is it you, lad? I'm here. I'll help you."
A voice answered him—a smothered inarticulate voice. A groping hand came up, clutching for deliverance. There came the slip and crackle of broken wood beneath which some living object struggled and fought for freedom.
The one wiry arm of the moonstone-seller went down to the rescue. It did good service that night—such service as astonished even its owner when he had time to think.
The man under the débris was making titanic efforts, thrusting his way upwards with desperate, frantic strength. Once as he strove he uttered a sharp, agonized cry, and the man above him swore in fierce, instinctive sympathy.
"Where are you hurt, old chap? Keep your head, for Heaven's sake! Where is it worst?"
The gasping voice made answer with spasmodic effort: "My head—my face—my eyes! Oh, God,—my eyes!"