"Don't give way to such thoughts. Hope while we may. The worst, if it _must_ come, will come soon enough." For an hour--a long, weary hour full of agonizing fears and doubts--the comrades crept slowly on, upon their hands and knees, not knowing whether they were nearing or distancing safety. But then Burr Wythe, who was in advance, gave way to a gasping cry--a cry of joyful thanksgiving. "Thank God! we are saved! This is the first chamber--I can tell it!" "But--" hesitated Duplin, "then we should see the light. _Where is the hole we crept in at?_" All before them was dark and black. They could see nothing. And now Wythe remembered that as they first entered the tunnel, he had glanced back. The hole then shone clear and distinct. It was gone now! With a cry of apprehension he arose and sprung forward. In a moment he discovered the truth. This was indeed the outer chamber. And he felt where the entrance had been. _It was now blocked up!_ _They were buried alive!_ Both sunk to the ground, heart-sick and despairing. CHAPTER VII. NATE UPSHUR'S WORK. On the night of the storm, Nathan Upshur sat apart from his two comrades, noiselessly smoking his pipe. That he was not in the best of humor was plainly evident. It was only several hours since they had come on the whereabouts of Wythe and his companions, after an arduous search of several days' duration. But yet, short as was the time, Upshur had proposed a bloody plan to Chicot and Dooley--nothing less than murdering the gold-hunters, and then taking their treasure. His ill-humor now was caused by their flat refusal to enter into any thing of the sort. They had counted the cost, and were willing to enforce their rights to a portion of the placer, if need be, by an appeal to arms, but it must be in open fight, not midnight assassination. But Upshur objected to this. It savored too much of personal danger, and that he did not greatly fancy. So he sat brooding over the matter, sour and sullen. "It's jest this," quoth Chicot, settling the ashes in his pipe. "They _must_ let us in on shar's. I'll tell 'em that I knew of it fust--last year, an' that I on'y j'ined the train so's to git to the place. They cain't deny it--or, ef they do, they cain't prove that I lie. _Then_ ef they cut up rusty, let 'em. We kin make 'em sick o' the job, I reckon. But I won't hev no onderhand work--no rubbin' out in the dark--mind _that_, Nate Upshur." They were encamped upon the hillside, in a deep crevice in the rocks that overhung their heads, where the tiny camp-fire was hidden from any one unless within a half-score yards of the spot. And, as he stated his position, Paul Chicot lay down to sleep, unmindful of the coming storm. But that night was not to pass without disturbance, even with them. Suddenly the clear report of fire-arms broke upon the air, coming, as all knew, from the gold-hunters' camp.