“Not unless at the very last I turn weak and womanish;” and there was a whimsical touch in the last word.
Then the young figure straightened up with a quick decision.
“And I really think, Trevanion”—young Carrington’s voice was light now—“that I shall make a nice, plucky, manly finish.”
Trevanion, following back into the raise, would have cut his heart out to save that buoyant young life, but his devotion was the pure fealty of a serf for his sovereign.
They played at bravery after that, each abetting the other.
Young Carrington coaxed Trevanion into telling them mining stories, wheedled Hastings into all kinds of reminiscences of his boyhood, assumed their ultimate escape so confidently that Hastings thought it a genuine hopefulness.
Not so Trevanion. He knew what the spring was that moved young Carrington to play up to a buoyant part. And he helped, with anecdotes of wonderful rescues, of escapes just in the nick of time.
He was in the midst of one of the best of these when a little lapping sound stopped him.
A thin little line of water pulsed gently into the entrance of the raise.