As she knelt in the dark, dreadful place, full of booming, terrifying noises, all life changed its values before her eyes. This was a man who had a touch of greatness in him. He made big mistakes; he was also capable of big heroism. She knew in her heart that, if Gaunt had not been there, if the accident had happened with only the Ferrises and herself in the cave, the delay--while men were fetched to do what her husband had immediately and simply done himself--might have been, would have been, fatal. The contrast between Percy, helplessly unnerved, and Gaunt, ready to rise at once to the height of the moment, had flashed itself upon her like an instantaneous photograph. She had herself risen with Osbert. He had called her, given her something to do--quiet, definite orders to carry out. Without a question, she went and did his bidding, though she was longing to break into cowardly pleading, to cry out to him not to throw away his life. And she returned to find them all busy with Gerald, and nobody apparently giving a thought to the man still in the pit. She soon changed that. Her beauty, her distress, her urgency, made stronger appeals to the men than her promise of liberal reward. And now everything, everything, hung upon the result--whether the man they brought to the surface would be still alive or not. When the signal to draw up was given, she felt as if each passing clock-tick were a year. The dread which had sprung up in her, when she saw Gaunt hang brooding over the chasm, could never be dispersed, if he were dead. She would never know whether he truly wished to die or whether life was sweet to him. How slowly they were hauling in the rope! How endlessly long it seemed. Then, at last, she saw him drawn from the living tomb--limp, inert, ghastly. She rose, though her knees would hardly support her, and crawled to him as they undid the rope from about him. The man who had gone down stood near, wiping the sweat from his eyes, and reeling slightly on his feet. He coughed, and spat, and seemed as if he would be sick. "Just hell down there, 'm," he told her, apologetically. "I'm afraid it's all over with him, God help you!" * * * * * Gaunt was adrift upon a summer sea. The waves rose and fell, with a lulling cadence. He felt only one desire--the desire for sleep; but a perpetual calling kept him perversely awake. When he reached the land he would, he knew, attain perfect repose. He made an inquiry of some unseen companion as to what was the name of the land which they would reach. The answer to this was: "They call it Virginia."