For an answer, the whistle of the train falls upon her ears.
She hesitates, then with an energy born of desperation she begins to pile the rocks on the track. The ragged edges cut her tender fingers. She works on unmindful of cuts and bruises.
Higher and higher the pyramid rises.
Only once does she glance down the track to see the train. Its great headlight looks like a beacon. It is approaching nearer and nearer.
"Have they started the car?" Martha wonders. She can hear the rumble of the train, but not a sound from the road above.
"The train will reach this spot first," she cries aloud. "The miners are waiting for it to get nearer to them."
Acting upon a sudden impulse, she runs up the track a distance of a hundred yards. There are rocks lying on the side of the track nearest the mountain.
One, two, three big rocks she places on the track.
A faint cheer reaches her.
"They have started the car," she laughs hysterically.