Chapter Forty One.
In the Gross Darkness.
Panton’s conscience smote him, and he could not speak, for he felt that he was to blame for their trouble. But Oliver Lane rose to the occasion.
“Quick,” he said, “all candles out but one. Keep yours, Drew, and the other can be relit when it burns down.”
In an instant there was a darkening of the scene of gloom, and the young botanist held up his dim yellow light a little higher.
“Now, then, what’s to be done?” he said, huskily. “Hail—hail, all together,” cried Oliver, and he was obeyed, but the echoes were the only answers to their cries.
“Poor old Billy! Poor old Billy!” groaned Smith.
“Silence, there!” said Oliver, sharply. “There is only one thing to do. You must get back to the entrance as quickly as you can, and then make for the brig to fetch lights and ropes.”
“But it seems so cruel to go and leave the poor fellow without making farther search.”
“You cannot make farther search without lights,” cried Oliver, angrily. “Quick! you are wasting time. Go at once while your lights last.”