By this time
the air had almost failed them. They gasped for breath, their heads
swam vaguely. A terrible weight seemed to oppress their bosoms.
Even the lamps in the carriages flickered low and burned blue.
The atmosphere of the tunnel, loaded from the very beginning with
sulphurous smoke, was now all but exhausted. Death stared them in
the face without hope of respite--a ghastly, slow death by gradual
stifling.
"You MUST take a little water," Elma murmured, pouring out the
last few drops for him into the tin cup--for Cyril had brought a
small bottleful that morning for his painting, as well as a packet
of sandwiches for lunch. "You're dreadfully tired. I can see your
lips are parched and dry with digging."
She was deathly pale herself, and her own eyes were livid, for by
this time she had fairly given up all hope of rescue; and, besides,
the air in the tunnel was so foul and stupefying, she could hardly
speak; indeed, her tongue clung to her palate. But she poured out
the last few drops into the cup for Cyril and held them up imploringly,
with a gesture of supplication. These two were no strangers to one
another now. They had begun to know each other well in those twelve
long hours of deadly peril shared in common.
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