Left to herself, Moya unlaced the shoes of Miss Seldon. Vigorously she rubbed the feet and limbs till the circulation began to be restored. Joyce cried and writhed with the pain, while the other young woman massaged and cuddled her in turn. The worst of the suffering was past before the men returned, stamping snow from their feet and shaking it from their garments over the floor. "A hell of a night to be out in," the one called Dave growled to his fellow. "Did you get the horses?" Moya asked timidly. "They're in the tunnel." The ungracious answer was given without a glance in her direction. They were a black-a-vised, ill-favored pair, these miners upon whose hospitality fate had thrown them. Foreigners of some sort they were, Cornishmen, Moya guessed. But whatever their nationality they were primeval savages untouched by the fourteen centuries of civilizing influences since their forbears ravaged England. To the super-nervous minds of these exhausted young women there was a suggestion of apes in the huge musclebound shoulders and the great rough hands at the ends of long gnarled arms. Small shifty black eyes, rimmed with red from drink, suggested cunning, while the loose-lipped heavy mouths added more than a hint of bestiality. It lent no comfort to the study of them that the large whisky bottle was two-thirds empty. They slouched back to their cards and their bottle. It had been bad enough to find them sullen and inhospitable, but as the liquor stimulated their unhealthy imaginations it was worse to feel the covert looks stealing now and again toward them. Joyce, sleeping fitfully in the arms of Moya, woke with a start to see them drinking together at the table. "I don't like them. I'm afraid of them," she whispered. "We mustn't let them know it," Moya whispered in her ear. For an hour she had been racked by fears, had faced unflinchingly their low laughs and furtive glances. Now one of the men spoke. "From Goldbanks?" "Yes." "You don't live there." "No. We belong to the English party--Mr. Verinder's friends." "Oh, Verinder's friends. And which of you is his particular friend?" The sneer was unmistakable. "We started out this afternoon for wild flowers and the storm caught us," Moya hurried on. "So you're Verinder's friends, are you? Well, we don't think a whole lot of Mr. Verinder out here." Moya knew now that the mention of Verinder's name had been a mistake. The relations between the mine owners and the workmen in the camp were strained, and as a foreign non-resident capitalist the English millionaire was especially obnoxious. Moreover, his supercilious manners had not helped to endear him since his arrival. The man called Dave got to his feet with a reckless laugh. "No free lodgings here for Mr. Verinder's friends. You'n got to pay for your keep, my dears." Miss Dwight looked at him with unflinching eyes which refused to understand his meaning. "We'll pay whatever you ask and double the amount after we reach camp."