“You take both candles, Miss Breen,” he commanded quietly. “I’ll have to use my hands and open the drift.” He attempted to laugh at his remark. “It’ll only take—take a second.”
He jerked off his coat and dropped it to the muddy floor. Miss Breen held both candles behind him as he began his attack upon the rock. At first, it came away readily enough; then, of a sudden, larger, firmly wedged chunks met his torn fingers.
Frantically, hopefully he dug. The jagged edges of the granite ripped his fingers and wrists. But the pain did not compare with the agony that steadily increased within his brain. The sweat began to pour down his white face; his breath came in choking gasps as he rolled rock after rock behind him.
He did not dare to turn and look into Miss Breen’s eyes. Nash had not been an engineer these years for nothing; he knew, even from the very first, just how hopeless his task would be—how many tons of rock probably lay between him and the cool night air. And then, when he finally came upon huge bowlders which a dozen men could not have moved, he straightened, passed his torn, bleeding fingers across his damp face, and turned slowly.
Miss Breen, holding aloft the candles, met his gaze with wide, staring eyes. Her face was devoid of all color.
“I’ll—I’ll have to rest a minute,” he faltered.
“What good will it do?” she asked.
He thrust his head forward and looked deep into her eyes.
“I guess—guess there’s no use in lying to you, Miss Breen,” he declared, his voice echoing dully in the stillness of the big chamber. “We’re caught in a trap. There is no escape.”
He half expected she would scream, or faint dead away; but she did neither. The candles she clutched trembled slightly—that was all. Despite his own feelings, he marveled at her apparent self-control.