At last, far down a gallery, Westbrook heard a faint cry. With an answering shout of reassurance he dashed ahead of the others and came face to face with Ethel Barrington.
“You!” she cried.
“Yes, yes; you’re not hurt?”
She shook her head and leaned heavily against the wall. The reaction was making her head swim.
“And your friends?”
“Here”—she pointed to the ground almost at her feet. “They’re not hurt—they fainted.”
Stalwart miners poured into the narrow chamber and lifted the prostrate forms, leaving Westbrook to follow with Miss Barrington. That young lady still leaned against the wall.
“I—we should be going; can you—let me help you,” stammered Westbrook.
“Oh, I can walk,” she laughed nervously, making a vain attempt to steady her limbs as she moved slowly away from her support.