Grace stepped forward. He went to Joan Lowrie and touched her gently on the shoulder.
"We cannot think of it," he said. "It is very brave and generous, and—God bless you!—but it cannot be. I could not think of allowing it myself, if the rest would."
"Parson," said Joan, coolly but not roughly, "tha'd ha' hard work to help thysen, if so be as th' lads wur willin'!"
"But," he protested, "it may be death. I could not bear the thought of it. You are a woman. We cannot let you risk your life."
She turned to the volunteers.
"Lads," she cried passionately, "yo' munnot turn me back. I—sin I mun tell yo'—" and she faced them like a queen—"theer's a mon down theer as I'd gi' my heart's blood to save."
They did not know whom she meant, but they demurred no longer.
"Tak' thy place, wench," said the oldest. "If tha mun, tha mun."
She took her seat in the cage by Grace, and when she took it she half turned her face away. But when those above began to lower them, and they found themselves swinging downward into what might be to them a pit of death, she spoke to him.
"Theer's a prayer I'd loike yo' to pray," she said. "Pray that if we mun dee, we may na dee until we ha' done our work."