The other shook his head.
“A convulsion of nature seated that stone there,” he said; “another one displaced it. It is hoping too much that a third will occur and free us.”
“Then we must sit here till we die?”
Mr. Chillingworth’s voice struck in. It was as lifeless as the tones of the others.
As for Monday and Tuesday they took no part in the conversation, but sat moodily in the rear of the cave accepting their fate in a stoical manner.
“I am afraid that the only thing for us to do is to die like men and Americans,” said the professor bravely.
“Oh, no! no! I cannot die like this. I must get out! Oh, heaven, I won’t die like this!”
As he shouted thus incoherently the rancher dashed himself against the rock that sealed the cave mouth. Tom started up to drag him from the entrance and prevent his uselessly bruising and cutting himself. But the professor laid a hand on the boy’s arm.
“Leave him alone,” he said; “poor fellow. Life was good to him. He will be quieter when that paroxysm is over.”
And so it proved. The rancher’s desperate fit left him weak and exhausted. He sank down on a bit of rock, his head buried in his hand. But his heaving shoulders told what he was enduring.