“Don’t, don’t talk like that,” cried Gwyn, wildly.
“I must, my lad, for the water’s rising faster, and in a few minutes we shall be drowned.”
“Then come on with the stream and let’s find a higher place,” cried Joe.
“Nay, we aren’t got strength enough to go on. Better stay where we are.”
“Hi! Grip! Grip! Grip!” cried Gwyn, holding up the lanthorn and wading farther in, but there was no answering bark.
“Come along, Sam,” said Joe, hoarsely, as he opened his lanthorn door to let the water he had got in, drain out. “Here, look, it’s shallower where he is.”
“Ay, it do rise, you see,” groaned Hardock, who was now completely unmanned.
“Come on!” shouted Gwyn; “it isn’t up to my knees here.”
They followed till, toward the dead end where the old miners had ceased working in the far back past, the lode had narrowed and run up into a flattened crevice, up which Gwyn began to clamber.
“Follow me,” he said; “I’m quite clear of the water. It’s a natural crack. There has been no picking here, and it comes up at a steep slope.”