"Parson," said Joan, coolly but not roughly, "tha'd ha' hard work to help thysen, if so be as th' lads wur willin'!" "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. "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. "Nay," she answered, "we'n go together." The gallery was a long and low one, and had been terribly shaken. In some places the props had been torn away, in others they were borne down by the loosened blocks of coal. The dim light of the "Davy" Joan held up showed such a wreck that Grace spoke to her again. "You must let me go first," he said with gentle firmness. "If one of these blocks should fall--" Joan interrupted him:-- "If one on 'em should fall, I'm th' one as it had better fall on. There is na mony foak as ud miss Joan Lowrie. Yo' ha' work o' yore own to do." She stepped into the gallery before he could protest, and he could only follow her. She went before, holding the Davy high, so that its light might be thrown as far forward as possible. Now and then she was forced to stoop to make her way around a bending prop; sometimes there was a falling mass to be surmounted: but she was at the front still when they reached the other end, without finding the object of their search. "It--he is na there," she said. "Let us try th' next passage," and she turned into it.