Then she seemed to fall asleep. He fought bravely against the deathly weakness that was stealing over him. A passionate prayer was in his heart: "Lord, send us help before it is too late!" Hours seemed to pass while he sat there in a strange half-stupor that most likely would merge into delirium, as hers had done. Oh, the gnawings of hunger, the pangs of thirst, how terrible they were! "Yet, thank Heaven, I have lightened hers for a little while by the life-fluid I freely gave!" he muttered. Suddenly, in the darkness, a little groping hand fell on his face. "Are you there still?" asked Marie's voice, weak but clear. "I am here still," he answered, taking the hand again in his own. The pulse was much better now. She continued, softly: "I feel stronger, but I was surely dying when you gave me the sweet, warm milk to drink. It put new life in my veins, but--" she paused as if a new thought had struck her mind. "Well?" he said, gently, and she answered: "I can not imagine where you found the milk. I hope you had some, too. It is so reviving. Did you?" "Yes, plenty," he replied, with a shudder, and she said: "I am so glad. But how dreary it is all in the dark! Sing again, please." It had seemed to him a minute ago that he was almost too weak to speak, but he made a great effort to please her, although he knew that it would exhaust his strength all the sooner. He sung with all the power that remained in his weak lungs. In the darkness and the gloom, the dear old hymn, learned at his mother's knee in childhood, sounded sweetly solemn: "Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide, The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide; When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me! "Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes, Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies; Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain--" There was a sudden, swift break in the voice that soared upward to the pitying heavens--his strength had not given out, but something wonderful had happened. From over their heads, and seeming to come through the small pipe provided to ventilate their darksome prison, had come the distinct sound of a human voice. "Halloo!" CHAPTER XXIII. In almost the last hour, when hope had deserted them, and they hourly expected death, succor had arrived. Van Zandt's singing had attracted attention at last, and now help was at hand. When that ringing halloo came down the ventilating pipe, he almost swooned with the suddenness of his joy and relief; and it was Marie, who, with a sudden accession of frantic joy, screamed shrilly back: "Halloo!" A voice came quickly back--a familiar voice: "Who is down there?" This time Van Zandt answered: "Two prisoners--Eliot Van Zandt and a lady. We are starving, dying! For God's sake, cut a hole quickly through the floor, and come to our aid!"