"It's a dangerous imprisonment," he said, "but not, of necessity, a
fatal one."
She still stood staring silently at the messenger who had brought to
her these dreadful tidings.
"They're a-thryin' to get to the mouth o' the shaft now," said Andy.
"They're a-dhraggin' the timbers away; timbers wid the fire in 'em
yit. Ye'd be shtartled to see 'em, mum."
Then the lady spoke.
"I will go to the shaft," she said. Her carriage was already at the
door; she started toward it, throwing a light wrap across her arm as
she went.
Again the man on the bed moved and moaned.
"Stay with him," she said to Andy, "until I come myself, or send some
one to relieve you. See that he has everything he needs. He is my
charge."
Goodlaw helped her to the carriage.
"Will you come with me?" she asked.
He seated himself beside her and they were driven away. There was
little that he could say to comfort and assure her. The shock was too
recent. The situation of her son was too perilous.
Darkness was coming on when they reached the scene of the disaster;
one or two stars were already out, and the crescent of the new moon
was hanging in the west. Great clouds of white smoke were floating
away to the east, and where the breaker had that morning stood there
was now only a mass of charred and glowing ruins.
There were many people there, people who talked in low tones and
who looked on with solemn faces. But there were no outcries nor
lamentations; there was but one person, a boy, shut up in the mine,
and he was kin to no one there.
Pages:
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351