"Nay, sir, there's no need," said Hardock; "we keep on taking you in three shifts, and can go on for long enough."

"Thank you, my lads, thank you," said the Colonel; "but I am better now.

Anxiety and fatigue were too much for me. I'm stronger, and can walk."

"Nay, sir, you can better ride."

"If I am overdone again I will ask you to carry me," said the Colonel.

"I am not a wounded man, my lads; only at the heart," he added bitterly to himself. "How am I to face his mother if he is not found?"

They set him down, and he walked on slowly for a few hundred yards; but after that one of the men saw him display a disposition to rest, and in his rough way offered his arm.

"May help you a bit, sir, like a walking stick," said the man, with a smile.

"Thank you, my lad. G.o.d bless you for your kindness," said the Colonel as he took the man's arm; and they went on again for some time till far ahead there was the faint gleam of a light reflected from the wet granite rock, and the Colonel uttered a cry--

"Ah! Quick! quick! My poor boys! At last! at last!"

He hastened his steps, and the men exchanged glances and then looked at Hardock, expecting him to speak.

But Hardock felt choking, and remained silent as they went on, till, turning about an angle in the zigzagging gallery, they came suddenly upon a nearly burned-out candle stuck against the wall, and beneath it, plainly to be seen, one of the leaves of the Colonel's pocket-book.

It was some moments before the old officer spoke, for the finding of the light confused him.

"Why, what's this?" he said, in an agitated voice; "you have taken some turning by mistake, and worked round to the way we came. Then very likely my poor boys have done the same, and found their way out by now."

No one spoke.

"Don't you think so, my lads?"

Still no one answered; and now he began to grasp the truth.

"Why, what's this?" he cried angrily. "Surely you men have not dared-- have not been such cowards--as to turn back! Halt!"

The last word was uttered in so commanding a tone of voice that the little party stopped as one man.

"Hardock! Explain yourself, sir. Did you dare to change the arrangements during my temporary indisposition?"

"Beg your pardon, sir, you were completely beat out, and we felt that we must carry you back to the shaft."

"What insolence!" roared the Colonel. "Right about face. Forward once more. But," he added bitterly, "if any man among you is too cowardly to help me, he can go back."

He turned and strode off into the darkness, and Hardock followed just in time to catch him as he reeled and s.n.a.t.c.hed at the side of the gallery to save himself from falling.

"You can't do it, sir, you can't do it," said Hardock, with his voice full of the rough sympathy he felt. "We did it all for the best. We'd have carried you farther in, but it seemed like so much madness, and so we decided. Part's gone on with Harry Vores, and we're going to send in another shift as soon as we get back."

The Colonel looked at him despairingly, for he knew that the man's words were true, and that it would be impossible to go on.

"We did what we thought were right, sir," continued Hardock; "and it's quite likely that the young gents have got safely back by now."

The Colonel made no reply, but suffered himself to be led back to where the men were waiting, and then, growing more helpless minute by minute, he was conducted, after a long and toilsome task, which included several pauses to rest, to the foot of the shaft.

The water had increased till it was nearly knee-deep when they waded to where the skep was waiting, and the Colonel was half fainting from exhaustion; but the feeling that the boys might be safely back revived him somewhat, and he strove hard to maintain his composure as they all stepped in, the signal was given, and they began to rise. But he was hanging heavily upon the arm of one of the men before the mouth of the shaft was reached, and he looked dazed and confused, feeling as if in a dream, when the engineer cried,--

"Well, found 'em?"

"Then they've not come back?" said Hardock.

The Colonel heard no more, but just as his senses left him he was conscious of a trembling hand being thrust into his, and a voice saying,--

"Our poor lads, Pendarve; can nothing more be done?"

Something more could be done, for the work-people about the place-- carpenters, smiths and miners--volunteered freely enough; and in the course of the night two more gangs went down, and Vores and his party gave them such advice as they could, after returning utterly wearied out; but it became more and more evident that the lads had either fallen down some smaller shaft, as yet undiscovered, in one of the side drifts of the mine, or wandered right away--how far none could tell until the place had been thoroughly explored.

And at this time anxious watchers in the shed over the mouth of the mine had been recruited by the coming of one who said little, her pale, drawn face telling its own tale of her sufferings as she sat there, ready to start at every sound, and spring up excitedly whenever the signal was given for the skep to be raised.

But there was no news, and she always shrank back again, to seat herself in a corner of the shed, as if desirous of being alone, and to avoid listening to the words of comfort others were eager to utter.

"Not a word, Jollivet, not a word," whispered the Colonel once during the horrors of that long-drawn night. "She has not spoken, but her eyes are so full of reproach, and they seem to keep on asking me why I could not be content without plunging into all the excitement and trouble connected with this mine."

The Major groaned.

"Don't you look at me like that," said the Colonel, appealingly. "I am doing everything I can; and as soon as I can stir, I will head a party to go right on as far as the mine extends."

CHAPTER THIRTY.

IN DARKNESS.

Gwyn Pendarve opened his eyes, feeling sore and in grievous pain. A sharp point seemed to be running into his side, and he was hurting his neck, while one shoulder felt as if it had become set, so that, though it ached terribly, he could not move.

He did not know how it was or why it was, for all was confused and strange; and he lay trying to puzzle out clearly why Caer Point light should be revolving so quickly, now flashing up brightly, and now sinking again till all was nearly dark.

It seemed very strange, for he had often looked out to sea on dark nights, over to where the great lighthouse stood up on the Jagger Rock ten miles away, seeing the light increase till it seemed like a comet, whose long, well-defined tail slowly swept round over the sea till it was hidden by the back of the lanthorn, and he waited till it flashed out again; but it had never given him pains in the body before, neither could he recall that it smelt so nasty, just like burnt mutton-chops.

That was the strangest part of it, for he remembered when the fishermen sailed over there with them so that they could have some conger fishing off the rocks, the light keepers took them round, and among other things showed them the store-room in the lower part of the building, where the great drums of crystal oil for tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the lamps were lifted into the tank. Yes, of course they burned paraffin oil in the great optical lanthorn; but though it was tremendously hot there, when the light was in full play, there was scarcely any odour, while now it smelt of burnt mutton fat.

Gwyn could not make it out. There, in the far distance, was the light, now flashing out brightly, now dying; out into darkness, smelling horribly, making him very hot, and giving him all those aching pains from which he was suffering.

There was another problem, too, that he had to solve; why was it that a lighthouse lanthorn ten miles away on a dark night should make him so hot that the perspiration stood out all over his face, and the collar of his shirt was soaked?

Why was it?--why was it? He puzzled and puzzled in a muddled way, but seemed to get no nearer the solution. There was the light still coming and going and smelling badly, and making him so hot that he felt as if he could not breathe.

Then the solution came like a flash, which lit up his mind just as all was black darkness; and in spite of the agony he felt as soon as he moved, he started up into a sitting posture, and then made for the light.

For he knew now that it was not the lighthouse lanthorn on Jagger Rock ten miles away, but the common lanthorn he had brought down into the mine some time before, and set about ten feet off, where it could not be kicked over when they turned over in their sleep--the sleep into which he had plunged at once as if into a stupor.

It was from this stupor that he had now awakened to turn from the sultry heat of the mine, chilled to the heart with horror, for the fresh candle he had lit had burned down into the socket, and was giving the final flickers before going out, and they had not a match to strike and light another.