“Keep on; it will come,” cried Gwyn. “Keep on, sir, and try. You must get to the top, where Joe Jollivet is.”
“No, no; let me die in quiet.”
“Very well; when I have got you into a good dry place. You can’t die in peace with the cold black water creeping over you.”
“N–no,” said Hardock, with a shiver.
“Come on, then, at once,” cried Gwyn; and, unable to resist the imperious way in which he was ordered, the poor fellow began to struggle up the narrow rift, while Gwyn, keeping his fears to himself, trembled lest the place should prove too strait.
Twice over Hardock came to a stand; but at a word from Gwyn he made fresh efforts, the way in which the lad showed him the road encouraging him somewhat; till at last, panting and exhausted, he dragged himself beyond the last angle, and rolled over upon the stony slope where Joe had been holding his lanthorn over the dark passage, and looking down.
“We can go no farther till he’s rested,” whispered Gwyn.
“No; but look how the water’s rising. How long will it be before it reaches up to here?”
Gwyn shook his head, and listened to the murmur of the rising flood, which sounded soft and distant; but the rush of wind grew louder, sweeping up the cavity with the loud whistling sound of a tempest.
Gwyn rose to his knees, trimmed his light, and said less breathlessly now,—