CHAPTER XVIII.

WE ABANDON HOPE

I can give no adequate description of the horrors of the night which

followed. Mercifully they were to some extent mitigated by sleep, for

even in such a position as ours wearied nature will sometimes assert

itself. But I, at any rate, found it impossible to sleep much. Putting

aside the terrifying thought of our impending doom—for the bravest man

on earth might well quail from such a fate as awaited us, and I never

made any pretensions to be brave—the _silence_ itself was too great to

allow of it. Reader, you may have lain awake at night and thought the

quiet oppressive, but I say with confidence that you can have no idea

what a vivid, tangible thing is perfect stillness. On the surface of

the earth there is always some sound or motion, and though it may in

itself be imperceptible, yet it deadens the sharp edge of absolute

silence. But here there was none. We were buried in the bowels of a

huge snow-clad peak. Thousands of feet above us the fresh air rushed

over the white snow, but no sound of it reached us. We were separated

by a long tunnel and five feet of rock even from the awful chamber of

the Dead; and the dead make no noise. Did we not know it who lay by

poor Foulata’s side? The crashing of all the artillery of earth and

heaven could not have come to our ears in our living tomb. We were cut

off from every echo of the world—we were as men already in the grave.

Then the irony of the situation forced itself upon me. There around us

lay treasures enough to pay off a moderate national debt, or to build a

fleet of ironclads, and yet we would have bartered them all gladly for

the faintest chance of escape. Soon, doubtless, we should be rejoiced

to exchange them for a bit of food or a cup of water, and, after that,

even for the privilege of a speedy close to our sufferings. Truly

wealth, which men spend their lives in acquiring, is a valueless thing

at the last.

And so the night wore on.

“Good,” said Sir Henry’s voice at last, and it sounded awful in the

intense stillness, “how many matches have you in the box?”

“Eight, Curtis.”

“Strike one and let us see the time.”

He did so, and in contrast to the dense darkness the flame nearly

blinded us. It was five o’clock by my watch. The beautiful dawn was now

blushing on the snow-wreaths far over our heads, and the breeze would

be stirring the night mists in the hollows.

“We had better eat something and keep up our strength,” I suggested.

“What is the good of eating?” answered Good; “the sooner we die and get

it over the better.”

“While there is life there is hope,” said Sir Henry.

Accordingly we ate and sipped some water, and another period of time

elapsed. Then Sir Henry suggested that it might be well to get as near

the door as possible and halloa, on the faint chance of somebody

catching a sound outside. Accordingly Good, who, from long practice at

sea, has a fine piercing note, groped his way down the passage and set

to work. I must say that he made a most diabolical noise. I never heard

such yells; but it might have been a mosquito buzzing for all the

effect they produced.

After a while he gave it up and came back very thirsty, and had to

drink. Then we stopped yelling, as it encroached on the supply of

water.

So we sat down once more against the chests of useless diamonds in that

dreadful inaction which was one of the hardest circumstances of our

fate; and I am bound to say that, for my part, I gave way in despair.

Laying my head against Sir Henry’s broad shoulder I burst into tears;

and I think that I heard Good gulping away on the other side, and

swearing hoarsely at himself for doing so.

Ah, how good and brave that great man was! Had we been two frightened

children, and he our nurse, he could not have treated us more tenderly.

Forgetting his own share of miseries, he did all he could to soothe our

broken nerves, telling stories of men who had been in somewhat similar

circumstances, and miraculously escaped; and when these failed to cheer

us, pointing out how, after all, it was only anticipating an end which

must come to us all, that it would soon be over, and that death from

exhaustion was a merciful one (which is not true). Then, in a diffident

sort of way, as once before I had heard him do, he suggested that we

should throw ourselves on the mercy of a higher Power, which for my