“Coming. You must turn.”
“Can’t, I tell you. Oh, Ydoll, old fellow, it’s all over now I—ah!”
Then there was a wild cry that petrified Gwyn, just as he was nearing the place where Joe had managed to wedge himself, for it might have meant anything.
Then came relief, for Joe cried exultantly—
“My arm wedged round the block of stone; I’ve got it out.”
It was Gwyn’s turn to cry “Ah!” now, in the relief he felt; and for a few minutes he lay listening to the peculiar rustling noise beyond him, unable to stir. But he was brought to himself by a kick on the crown of his head, and began to back away from his companion’s feet as fast as he could, getting out at last to find Sam Hardock kneeling by the hole, lanthorn in hand, looking utterly despondent.
“It’s no good, my lad,” he said, with a groan. “What’s the use o’ punishing yourself in this way? You ought to know when you’re beat.”
“That’s what Englishmen never know, Sam,” cried Gwyn.
“Ay, so they say, sir—so they say; but we are beat now.”
The appearance of Joe’s boots put an end to their conversation; and a few minutes after he turned his face to them, looking ghastly in the feeble light of the lanthorns.