“Hold the light over,” he said. “Ah, mind, or you’ll have it out.”
For the candle flickered in the steady draught which came rushing up from below, and it had to be drawn partly back for shelter.
“Sam!” cried Gwyn, as he descended; but there was no reply, and the dread grew within the lad’s breast as he went on down into the darkness.
“I shall be obliged to come back for the light,” he shouted. “I can see nothing down here. How far is he back?”
“I don’t know,” said Joe, despairingly. “I thought he was close behind me. Shall I come down with the lanthorn?”
“Yes, you must, part of the way—to help me. No, I can just touch his lanthorn with my foot—here he is!”
“All right?” faltered Joe.
“I think so,” replied Gwyn, slowly. “Here, Sam Hardock, what’s the matter?—why don’t you come on?”
“It’s of no good,” said the man, feebly; “I’m done, I tell you. Why can’t you let me die in peace?”
“Because you’ve got to help us out of this place?”