There were falls in his course, and he clambered across rough hills
of rock and squeezed through narrow openings; but every step brought
him nearer to the slope, and this thought nerved him to still greater
effort. Yet he could not wholly escape the water of the sump. He had
still to pass through it. It was cold and black. It came to his ankles
as he trudged along. By and by it reached to his knees. When it grew
to be waist-deep he lifted the child to his shoulder, steadied himself
against the side wall of the passage and pushed on. He slipped often,
he became dizzy at times, there were horrible moments when he thought
surely that the dark water would close over him and his precious
burden forever. But he came through it at last, dripping, gasping,
staggering on till he reached the foot of the old slope. There he sat
down to rest. From away back in the mine the echoing shouts of the
rescuing party came faintly to his ears. Conway had returned with
help. He tried to answer their call, but the cry stuck in his throat.
He knew that it would be folly for him to attempt to reach them; he
knew also that they would never trace his course across that dreadful
waste of water.
There was but one thing to do; he must go on, he must climb the slope.
He gave one look up the long incline, gathered his burden to his
breast and started upward. The slope was not a steep one. There were
many in that region that were steeper; but to a man in the last stage
of physical exhaustion, forcing his tired muscles and his pain-racked
body to carry him and his helpless charge up its slippery way, it was
little less than precipitous.
Pages:
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371