you the lantern. I have
some matches."

"Oh, please don't leave me!" entreated Chris. "Why can't I come too?"

"It is too rough for you," he said. "And there are two passages. If I do
not find him in the one, without doubt he will return by the other to
you."

"You--you'd better take the lantern then," said Chris, with a gulp. "If I
am only going to stand still, I--I shan't want it."

"No, no--" he began.

But she insisted. "Yes, really. You will want it. I will wait for you
here, if you think it best. Only you will promise not to be long?"

"I promise," he said.

"Then be quick and go," she urged, drawing her hand from his. "We must
find him--we must."

But when his back was turned, and she saw him receding from her with the
light, she covered her face and trembled. It was the most horrible
adventure she had ever experienced.

For a long time she heard his footsteps echoing weirdly, but when they
died away at last and she stood alone in the utter, vault-like darkness,
her heart failed her. What if he also lost his way?

The darkness was terrible. It seemed to press upon her, to hurt her.
Through it came the faint sounds of trickling water from all directions
like tiny voices whispering together. Now and then something moved with a
small rustling. It might have been a lizard, a crab, or even a bat. But
Chris thought of snakes and stiffened to rigidity, scarcely daring to
breathe. The roar of the sea sounded remote and far, yet insistent also
as though it held a threat. And, above all, thick and hard and
agitatingly distinct, arose the throbbing of her frightened heart.

All the horrors she had ever heard or dreamt of passed through her brain
as she waited there, yet with a certain desperate courage she kept
herself from panic. Cinders might run against her at any moment--at any
moment. And even if not, even if she were indeed quite alone in that
awful place, she had heard it said that God was nearer to people in the
dark.

"O God," she whispered, "I am so frightened. Do bring them both back
soon."

After the small prayer she felt reassured. She touched the clammy wall on
each side of her, and essayed a tremulous whistle. It was a brave little
tune; she knew not whence it came till it suddenly flashed upon her that
she had heard it on Bertrand's lips on the day that he had drawn his
pictures in the sand. And that also renewed her courage. After all, what
had she to fear?

Over and over again she whistl