"Here, men," said one, "let's tumble him into the lead mine. No harm will it do him now, poor craythur."
But another voice, laden with the note of fearful agony, cried, "No, no, no!"
"We must do something. No time to lose now. The fac's is agen us. Let's make a slant for it, anyway. Lift again—up!"
Christian shuddered at the sound of human voices. Buried, as he was, sixty feet beneath the earth, they came to him like the voice that the wind might make on a tempestuous night if, as it reached your ear, it whispered words and fled away.
The men were gone. Christian's blood was chilled. What had happened? Was some one dead? Who was it? Christian shuddered at the thought of what might have occurred if the dead body had been tossed over him into the pit. Had the police overstepped their duty? Were they the police? Did he not remember one of the voices—or both? Christian's entempest soul was overwhelmed with agony. He could not be sure that in very truth he was conscious of anything that occurred.
Time passed—he knew not how long or short—and again he heard voices overhead. They were not the voices that he had heard before.
"They have escaped us," said one. "Their boats are gone from the creek now."
These, then, were the police; and, with a fresh flood of agony, Christian realized that the other men had been his friends. What fatality had prevented him from crying aloud to the only persons on earth who could, in very truth, have rescued and saved him?
The voices above were dying away. "Stop!" cried Christian. Despair made him brave; fear made him fearless. But none answered. Then he was conscious that a footstep approached the top of the shaft. Had he been heard? Now he prayed to God that he had not.
"What a gulf," said one. "Lucky we didn't tumble down. The young woman warned us, you remember."