There is no combination of letters that will more clearly express the horrible, echoing, hollow sound which, after what seemed to be a long interval, but which was almost momentary, rose out of the ancient shaft, followed by strange and sickening splashings and a faint, panting noise.
Then all was still; and Joe and the mining captain, who had been absolutely paralysed for the time being, stood gazing wildly in each other’s face.
That, too, was almost momentary, and, with a despairing cry, Joe Jollivet dashed at the low wall and began to climb over it, dislodging one of the stones, which fell inward, and then plunged down into the pit just as Hardock seized the boy by the waist to drag him back.
“What are you going to do?” roared the man, and the splash and roar of the fallen stone also came rushing out of the mouth.
“Do?” cried Joe, hysterically; “try and save him.”
“But you can’t do it that way, boy,” panted the man, whose voice sounded as if he had been running till he was breathless.
“I must—I must!” cried Joe, struggling to get free. “Oh, Gwyn, Gwyn, Gwyn!”
“Hold still, will you?” bawled Hardock. “Chucking yourself down won’t save him.”
“Then let me down by the rope.”
“Nay; it’s parted once, and you’d be drowned too.”