Questions, these, which they could not answer, and at last, with their miserable state of despondency increasing, they lay half-stupefied, listening for the help which, as the hours wore slowly by, seemed as if it would never come.
The end was unexpected when it did arrive, after what, in its long-drawn agony, seemed like a week. Gwyn had sent a message by the dog imploring for news, for he said the water was very close to them now, as it was lapping the top of the cavity, and every now and then brimming over and slowly filling the bottom of the sloping cavern.
All at once, heard plainly above the rush of the air and apparently close at hand, there was the loud striking of hammers upon stone.
Gwyn thrust his head into the opening at once, and shouted, his heart bounding as a hollow-sounding cheer came back from just the other side of the wedge.
“Who is it?” cried Gwyn, with the despondency which had chilled him taking flight.
“Vores,” came back. Then—“Look here, sir! I can’t break through this stone. I’ve no room to move and strike a blow. How far can you get away from it?”
“About sixty feet,” said Gwyn, after a few moments’ thought.
“Any place where you can shelter from flying stones?”
“Oh, yes, several.”
“Then I’m going back for a cartridge, and I shall put it under the stone, light a slow fuse and get away. It must be blasted.”