He was no coward, though Black Thompson had called him one; but this
voice from the dreaded pit, at that dark and lonely hour, made him
tremble so greatly that he could neither move nor shout aloud for very
fear. He leaned there, holding fast by the railing, with his hearing
made wonderfully acute, and his eyes staring blindly into the dense
blackness beneath him. In another second he detected a faint glimmer,
like a glow-worm deep down in the earth, and the voice, still muffled
and low, came up to him again.

'It's only me--Tim!' it cried. 'Hush! don't speak, Stephen; don't make
any noise. I'm left down in the pit. They're going to break into the
master's house to-night. They're going to get thee to creep through the
pantry window. If thee won't, Jack Davies is to go. They'll fire the
thatch, if they can't get the door open. Thee go and take care of Miss
Anne, and send Martha to Longville for help. Don't trust anybody at
Botfield.'

These sentences sounded up into Stephen's ears, one by one, slowly, as
Tim could give his voice its due tone and strength. He recollected
instantly all the long oppression the men had suffered from their
master. In that distant part of the county, where there were extensive
works, the colliers had been striking for larger wages; and some of them
had strolled down to Botfield, bringing with them an increase of
discontent and inquietude, which had taken deep root in the minds of all
the workpeople. It was well known that the master kept large sums of
money in his house, which, as I have told you, was situated among lonely
fields, nearly a mile from Botfield; and no one lived with him, except
Miss Anne, and one maid-servant. It was a very secure building, with
stone casements and strongly barred doors; but if a boy could get
through the pantry window, he could admit the others readily. How long
it would be before the attempt was made Stephen could not tell, but it
was already late, and Black Thompson had left him hurriedly. But at
least it must be an hour or two nearer midnight, and all hopes of rescue
and defence rested upon him and Martha only.

Martha was sitting by the fire knitting, and Bess Thompson was pinning
on her shawl to go home. Poor Bess! Even in his excitement Stephen felt
for her; but he dared not utter a word till she was gone. But then
Martha could not credit his hurried tidings and directions, until she
had been herself to the shaft to see the feeble gleam of Tim's lamp