Joe turned off mechanically, his long, lank figure looking strange in the extreme; and as he swung the lanthorns in each hand, grotesque shadows of his tall body were thrown on the wall on either side, and sometimes over the gleaming water which rushed by them, swift in places as a mill-race.
And still the water grew deeper, and no more arrows pointed faintly from the wall. The water was more than waist-deep now, and the chill feeling of despair was growing rapidly upon all. The lads did not speak, though they felt their position keenly enough, but Hardock uttered a groan from time to time, and at last stopped short.
“Don’t do that,” cried Gwyn, flashing into anger for a moment; but the man’s piteous reply disarmed him, and he felt as despairing.
“Must, sir—I must,” groaned the man; “I can’t do any more. You’ve been very kind to me, Master Gwyn, and I’d like to shake hands with you first, and say good-bye. There—there’s nothing for it but to give up, and let the water carry you away, as it keeps trying to do. We’ve done all that man can do; there’s no hope of getting out of the mine, so let’s get out of our misery at once.”
Chapter Forty Eight.
In Dire Peril.
For a few moments, in his misery and despair, Gwyn felt disposed to succumb, and he looked piteously at Joe, who stood drooping and bent, with the bottoms of the lanthorns touching the water. Then the natural spirit that was in him came to the front, and with an angry shout he cried,—
“Here, you, sir, keep those lights up out of the water. Don’t want us to be in the dark, do you?”