He felt her lean away from him, and then came her reply in a broken voice—
“No, Lance, I cannot.”
“Why, pet,” he exclaimed, “I really believe you are crying.”
“Yes, I am,” she acknowledged. “Forgive me, Lance dear, I really cannot help it; I shall be better by and by, perhaps, but—oh! it is so dreadful. You are very brave, and very good to me, but I know you must have realised it before now—the dreadful truth that we are lost here.”
“Tut, tut; nonsense, child,” Lance answered cheerily; “why, Blanche, you will get quite unnerved if you suffer such thoughts to take possession of you. There, lay your head on my shoulder, darling, and have your cry comfortably out; you will feel better and braver afterwards.”
He put his arm round her as he spoke; and the poor frightened girl laid her head upon his breast, trustfully as a child, and sobbed as though her heart would break.
Her companion let her sob on unchecked; he did not even say a word to comfort her—what could he say, with that frightful suspicion every moment gathering force and strengthening itself into certainty? No; better not to say anything; better not to buoy her up with delusive hopes; and, oh! how thankful he felt that the terrible task of breaking to her the news of their awful position had been spared him.
The sobs gradually grew less violent, and at length ceased altogether. Then Blanche raised her head and said quietly—
“Now, Lance, I am better, and feel able to listen to the worst you can tell me. I will not ask you to give me your candid opinion of our position, because I know it is—it must be the same as my own. But what do you propose that we should do?”