For he knew now that it was not the lighthouse lanthorn on Jagger Rock ten miles away, but the common lanthorn he had brought down into the mine some time before, and set about ten feet off, where it could not be kicked over when they turned over in their sleep—the sleep into which he had plunged at once as if into a stupor.
It was from this stupor that he had now awakened to turn from the sultry heat of the mine, chilled to the heart with horror, for the fresh candle he had lit had burned down into the socket, and was giving the final flickers before going out, and they had not a match to strike and light another.
Stretching out his trembling hands, he felt in the black darkness for the lanthorn, touched it after two or three ineffectual trials, and snatched it back, feeling his fingers burnt, just as the light gave a final flare, the jar of his touch upon the lanthorn being sufficient to quench the tiny flame.
In the horror of the moment Gwyn uttered a loud cry, and the result was a quick movement close at hand, followed by a voice saying,—
“Yes, father, all right. I’ll get up and fetch it. Is the pain so bad?”
Gwyn tried to speak, but no words came.
“Did you call, father?”
There was perfect silence in the stifling place, and Joe Jollivet spoke again, drowsily now.
“Must have dreamt it. But—hallo—Oh, my back! What ever’s the matter with it, and—here! hallo! What does it all mean? I must have been walking in my sleep.”
“Oh, Joe, Joe!” cried his companion.