Hark! He heard something overhead. Were they footsteps, those thuds that fell on the ear like the first rumble of a distant thunder-cloud? Yes, some one was near him. Now was his time to call, but his tongue was cleaving to his mouth. Then he heard words spoken at the mouth of the shaft. They rumbled down to him like words shouted through a hollow black pillar.
"Here, men," said one, "let's tumble him into the lead mine. No harm will it do him now, poor craythur."
But another voice, laden with the note of fearful agony, cried, "No, no, no!"
"We must do something. No time to lose now. The fac's is agen us. Let's make a slant for it, anyway. Lift again—up!"
Christian shuddered at the sound of human voices. Buried, as he was, sixty feet beneath the earth, they came to him like the voice that the wind might make on a tempestuous night if, as it reached your ear, it whispered words and fled away.
The men were gone. Christian's blood was chilled. What had happened? Was some one dead? Who was it? Christian shuddered at the thought of what might have occurred if the dead body had been tossed over him into the pit. Had the police overstepped their duty? Were they the police? Did he not remember one of the voices—or both? Christian's entempest soul was overwhelmed with agony. He could not be sure that in very truth he was conscious of anything that occurred.
Time passed—he knew not how long or short—and
