"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. "If tha mun, tha mun."
She took her seat in the cage by Grace, and when she took it she half turned her face away. But when those above began to lower them, and they found themselves swinging downward into what might be to them a pit of death, she spoke to him.
"Theer's a prayer I'd loike yo' to pray," she said. "Pray that if we mun dee, we may na dee until we ha' done our work."
It was a dreadful work indeed that the rescuers had to do in those black galleries. And Joan was the bravest, quickest, most persistent of all. Paul Grace, following in her wake, found himself obeying her slightest word or gesture. He worked constantly at her side, for he, at least, had guessed the truth. He knew that they were both engaged in the same quest. When at last they had worked their way—lifting, helping, comforting—to the end of the passage where the collier had said he last saw the master, then, for one moment, she paused, and her companion, with a thrill of pity, touched her to attract her attention.
"Let me go first," he said.
