Michael dared not look at Potch.
"He said," Roy murmured slowly, "it was Sophie."
They knew that Potch's pick had stopped. Michael had seen a tremor traverse the length of his bared back; but Potch did not turn. He stood with his face away from them, immobile. His body dripped with sweat and seemed to be oiled by the garish light of the candle which outlined his head, gilded his splendid arms and torso against the red earth of the mine, and threw long shadows into the darkness, shrouding the workings behind him. Then his pick smashed into the cement stone with a force which sent sharp, white chips flying in every direction.
When Roy crawled away through the tunnel to his own quarters, Potch swung round from the face he was working on, his eyes blazing.
"Is it true?" he gasped.
"Yes," Michael said.
After a moment he added: "I found her in the hut this morning just before I came away. I been tryin' all these blasted hours to tell you, Potch ... but every time I tried, it got me by the neck, and I had to wait until I found me voice."
CHAPTER VI
The sunset was fading, a persimmon glow failing from behind the trees, its light merging with the blue of the sky, creating the faint, luminous green which holds the first stars with such brilliance, when Sophie went out of the hut to meet Potch.