Cyril waved the cup aside with a firm air of dissent.
"No, no," he said, faintly, "you must drink it yourself. Your need
is greater far than mine."
Elma tried to put it away in turn, but Cyril would not allow her.
So she moistened her mouth with those scanty last drops, and turned
towards him gratefully.
"There's no hope left now," she said, in a very resigned voice.
"We must make up our minds to die where we stand. But I thank you,
oh, I thank you so much, so earnestly."
Cyril, for his part, could hardly find breath to speak.
"Thank you," he gasped out, in one last despairing effort. "Things
look very black; but while there's life there's hope. They may even
still, perhaps, come up with us."
As he spoke, a sound broke unexpectedly on the silence of their
prison. A dull thud seemed to make itself faintly heard from beyond
the thick wall of sand that cut them off from the daylight. Cyril
stared with surprise. It was a noise like a pick-axe. Stooping
hastily down, he laid his ear against the rail beside the shattered
carriage.
"They're digging!" he cried earnestly, finding words in his joy.
"They're digging to reach us! I can hear them! I can hear them!"
Elma glanced up at him with a certain tinge of half-incredulous
surprise.
Pages:
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49