“I don’t question your courage; God knows, you proved it sufficiently by coming in here when you knew what was going to happen--for you practically did know,” he hastened to say. Then: “Some of us men will probably break long before you will. That is why I say you must rest while you can. You may be needed later on--to keep some of us from forgetting that we _are_ men.” She gave him a tired little smile. “You are giving me a name to live up to. I wonder if I shall be able to do it--at the last?” “I don’t doubt it for a single moment; I have never doubted it. Did you have dinner before you began on this hideous adventure?” She nodded again. “It was a good dinner, too. Your father and mine were at the table, and Lucille and Herbert Oswald.” “And Wishart and the Englishman?” “No; they respected the family reunion. Your father looked years younger, and he is as brown as anything. And that reminds me; there is something I ought to tell you--before a time comes when I may not care to talk, or you to listen. It is about Lucille and Herbert.” “Go on,” he said gently. “I gave Herbert his hint--after you had given me leave to do as I pleased. That same evening, when I was in my bed-room lying down, Herbert came up to find Lucille. They sat together in the sitting-room of our suite, and, most naturally, they thought I had gone out. It was wicked of me to lie there and listen, but I hadn’t the heart to let them know that they were not alone.” “Everybody knows about your heart,” David put in, striving to dispel a little of the gloom. “Herbert said his little say very gently and tenderly, and oh, David, I wish you could have seen Lucille’s face! It was just like a beautiful rose blossoming while you looked. She didn’t say anything at first; she just put her hand up to Herbert’s face, and I could see her touching his forehead and eyes and lips with those finger-tips of hers that can see more than most of us can with our eyes. ‘I--I wanted to see if you really meant it, Herbert, or if you were only just sorry for me,’ she said, so softly that it was hardly more than a whisper; and then: ‘Oh, my dear, my dear--I am _so_ happy!’” There was silence for a little time; then David said: “I am glad you have told me, Vinnie; it’s a tremendous comfort to me now, in the light of what may happen to us here. You see, I am taking you at your word and not trying to hide things from you.” “Then you think it is doubtful--our getting out alive?” “Very doubtful,” he admitted, lowering his voice so that the men might not hear. “If it were a mere matter of digging out what has already fallen in--but it isn’t, you know. The crevice has been ‘prospected’ with test holes all the way up to the surface on the mountain-side three hundred feet above us. Plegg told me that only yesterday. It is rotten all the way through, and it will probably fall in as fast as it can be dug out.”