Both were silent for a few moments, immersed in bitter thoughts that were as black as the darkness that surrounded them.
"Can you ever forgive me, Ruth, for having gotten you into such a trap as this?" he burst out suddenly.
"You didn't get me in it," protested Ruth. "I came in of my own accord."
"I don't mean that," explained Drew. "But you tried to persuade me not to enter the cave in the first place, and if I'd only had sense enough to listen to you; we'd both of us be out in the sunlight at this minute. Headstrong fool that I was!" he ended in an agony of self condemnation.
"Now don't blame yourself a bit for that, Allen," said Ruth earnestly. "You only did what you thought you ought to do, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred no harm would have come of it."
"And it was our luck to strike the hundredth time," replied Drew bitterly.
"Besides," said Ruth with a trifle of hesitation, "I think I'd have been a little disappointed at the time if you had done as I asked. I'd have felt that perhaps in your secret heart you did it apparently to please me, but really because you were glad enough not to have to take any chances of what you might meet in here."
Drew was somewhat puzzled at this bit of feminine psychology, but he gathered some comfort from it, and this was perhaps after all the result that Ruth was seeking.
"Do you notice, Allen, how fresh the air seems to be in here?" she asked.
"I've been wondering at that," he answered. "To tell the truth my worst fear has been that it would get too close and foul for us to breathe. But it seems to be just as sweet now as it was at the beginning."