As he spoke, he snatched his hand from Cyril’s grasp, and took a step or two forward into the black darkness.
“Perry!” shouted Cyril, in a voice which sounded like a faint whisper, as he felt himself seized by the shoulder, John Manning’s great hand closing upon it like a vice, and holding it firmly.
“Where’s Master Perry?”
No answer escaped Cyril’s lips for a minute. He felt suffocated, and it was not until John Manning had shaken him violently and repeated his question twice, that he panted out the single word, “Gone.”
“Can you see where—has he fallen in?” was panted in his ear.
“No; he stepped from me to help the colonel, and then he was gone.”
John Manning groaned, and Cyril felt the strong man’s hand trembling, and the vibration thrilled through the boy’s frame until every nerve quivered with the horrible dread which assailed him.
All at once he felt the lips at his ear again.
“Let’s shout together, sir,” was whispered, and they tried hard to make their voices heard, calling together with all their strength, but they did not seem to be able to pierce the roar which pressed, as it were, upon them; and though they repeated the cry at intervals and listened for a reply, none came.
“It’s no good, Mr Cyril, sir,” groaned John Manning. “I’m ready, sir, to do anything to try and save my poor colonel and Master Perry; what can I do? It’s like chucking away my life and yours, sir, to stir a step.”