“Because I believe in ‘Never say die!’” cried the young man cheerily. “You are cold, man. Allow me, my lord, to spread this purple robe gracefully over your noble shoulders to keep off the draught. I say, Bel, these blankets are getting jolly black.”
“Thanks, Dal.”
“And with your lordship’s permission I will hang this piece of tapestry over the doorway to enhance the warmth of the glow within. Haven’t got a couple of tenpenny nails in your pocket, have you? Never mind; these pegs’ll hold it up. Whoo! it does blow. We shall be quite buried in the snow by morning.”
“Yes, once more,” said Abel gloomily.
“So much the warmer for it, Bel, and save the wood. I say, old chap, we ought to be thankful that we have such a snug den. It would be death to any one to be out to-night.”
“Yes; and they would have ceased hunting for that golden myth, and be at rest.”
“Well, you are a cheerful chap to-night! I say, I wonder what has become of old ‘My son,’—Tregelly, the Cornishman?”
“Dead or broken-hearted over this weary search.”
“Dead? Why, that fellow wouldn’t die a bit. Broken-hearted? His heart’s made of stuff much too tough. He’ll turn up some day to tell us he has made a big find.”
“Never. He’s dead by now.”