before them. Death would stare them
in the face all through its performance. There was choking after-damp
below, noxious vapors, to breathe which was to die; there was the chance
of crushing masses falling from the shaken galleries--and yet these men
left their companions one by one and ranged themselves, without saying a
word, at the Curate's side.

"My friends," said Grace, baring his head, and raising a feminine hand.
"My friends, we will say a short prayer."

It was only a few words. Then the Curate spoke again.

"Ready!" he said.

But just at that moment there stepped out from the anguished crowd a
girl, whose face was set and deathly, though there was no touch of fear
upon it.

"I ax yo'," she said, "to let me go wi' yo' and do what I con. Lasses,
some on yo' speak a word fur Joan Lowrie!"

There was a breathless start. The women even stopped their outcry to
look at her as she stood apart from them,--a desperate appeal in the
very quiet of her gesture as she turned to look about her for some one
to speak.

"Lasses," she said again. "Some on yo' speak a word fur Joan Lowrie!"

There rose a murmur among them then, and the next instant this murmur
was a cry.

"Ay," they answered, "we con aw speak fur yo'. Let her go, lads! She's
worth two o' th' best on yo'. Nowt fears her. Ay, she mun go, if she
will, mun Joan Lowrie! Go, Joan, lass, and we'n not forget thee!"

But the men demurred. The finer instinct of some of them shrank from
giving a woman a place in such a perilous undertaking--the coarser
element in others rebelled against it.

"We'n ha' no wenches," these said, surlily.

Grace stepped forward. He went to Joan Lowrie and touched her gently on
the shoulder.

"We cannot think of it," he said. "It is very brave and generous,
and--God bless you!--but it cannot be. I could not think of allowing it
myself, if the rest would."

"Parson," said Joan coolly, but not roughly, "tha'd ha' hard work to
help thysen, if so be as th' lads wur willin'."

"But," he protested, "it may be death. I could not bear the thought of
it. You are a woman. We cannot let you risk your life."

She turned to the volunteers.

"Lads," she cried, passionately, "yo' munnot turn me back. I--sin I
mun tell yo'----" and she faced them like a queen,--"theer's a mon down
theer as I'd gi' my heart's blood to save."

They did not know whom she meant, but they demurred no longer.

"Tak' thy place, wench," said the oldest of them