To save his crown, now uncovered by the loss of both kerchief and cap, he crept back into the alcove that had originally protected them from the stones cast in by the Indians. Along with the splinters something else came past Walt’s face, making a soft, rustling sound; it had a smell also that told what it was—the “cussed stink-weed.”
From the falling fragments, their size and number, he could tell that his comrade was making good way.
Walt longed to relieve him at his work, and called up a request to this end; but Hamersley returned a refusal, speaking in a cautious tone, lest his voice might be borne out to the ear of some savage still lingering near.
For over an hour Wilder waited below, now and then casting impatient glances upward. They were only mechanical; for, of course, he could see nothing. But they were anxious withal; for the success of his comrade’s scheme was yet problematical.
With sufficient food and drink to sustain them, they might in time accomplish what they had set about; but wanting these, their strength would soon give way, and then—ah! then—
The guide was still standing on the ledge, pursuing this or a similar train of reflection, when all at once a sight came, not under but above his eyes, which caused him to utter an exclamation of joy.
It was the sight of his comrade’s face—only that!
But this had in it a world of significance. He could hot have seen that face without light. Light had been let into their rock-bound abode, so late buried in the profoundest darkness.
It was but a feeble glimmer, that appeared to have found admission through a tiny crevice under the huge copestone; and Hamersley’s face, close to it, was seen only in faint shadow—fainter from the film of smoke yet struggling up the shaft.
Still was it light—beautiful, cheering light—like some shore-beacon seen by the storm-tossed mariner amid the dangers of a night-shrouded sea.