This was too, too terrible. To think of
eighteen hours in that gloom and suspense; and then to die at last,
gasping hard for breath, in the poisonous air of that pestilential
tunnel.
For nearly an hour she sat there, broken down and speechless; while
Cyril Waring, taking a seat in silence by her side, tried at first
with mute sympathy to comfort and console her. Then he turned to
examine the roof, and the block at either end, to see if perchance
any hope remained of opening by main force an exit anywhere. He
even began by removing a little of the sand at the side of the line
with a piece of shattered board from the broken carriage in front;
but that was clearly no use. More sand tumbled in as fast as
he removed it. He saw there was nothing left for it but patience
or despair. And of the two, his own temperament dictated rather
patience.
He returned at last, wearied out, to Elma's side. Elma, still
sitting disconsolate on the footboard, rocking herself up and down,
and moaning low and piteously, looked up as he came with a mute
glance of inquiry. She was very pretty. That struck him even now.
It made his heart bleed to think she should be so cowed and terrified.
"I'm sorry to bother you," he said, after a pause, half afraid to
speak, "but there are four lamps all burning hard in these four
compartments, and using up the air we may need by-and-by for our
own breathing.
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