“That is in winter-time only, I suppose?”

“Nay, Sir; we have storms at other seasons.  Whenever I see such a sign as the castle without the crag—­it’s all clear now, you see, because the wind is rising—­then am I thankful that my father is no sailor.  Most folk are such at Gethin that are not miners.”

“Then your father is a miner, is he?”

“No, Sir, not now, though he once was.  Every body knows John Trevethick about here, and why he don’t work underground.”

“How was that, then?” inquired Richard, with interest.  “You must remember I am a stranger, and know nothing.”

“Well, Sir, it was years ago, and before I was born.  Father was just married, though he was not a young man for a bridegroom, and was down Turlock pit-hole with Harry Coe (Solomon’s father), putting in shot for blasting.  They had worked underground together for five-and-twenty years, and were fast friends, though Coe was an older man, and a widower, with Solomon almost of age.  They were deep down in the shaft, and one at a time was all that the man at the windlass above could haul up; and they had put in their shot, and given them the signal.  One was to go up first, of course, and then the second to light the match, and follow him with all speed.  Now, while they were still both at the bottom, it struck Coe that the match was too long, and he took a couple of stones, a flat and a sharp one, to cut it shorter.  He did cut it shorter, but at the same time kindled the match.  Both shouted their loudest, and sprang at the basket, but the man at the windlass could not lift the double weight.  You see, Sir, it was certain death to both of them, unless one should give way.  Then Coe jumped out, crying to father ‘Go aloft, John.  In one minute I shall be in heaven.’  It was he who had caused the disaster, and therefore, as he doubtless thought, should be the one to suffer for it; besides, he reflected, perhaps, that he was an old man, and had no bride at home to mourn for him; still, it was a noble deed, and I never denied it.”

“Denied it!” exclaimed Richard; “I should think not.  Why should you?” and he looked up with wonder into his companion’s face.  It was one blush from brow to chin.

“Well, Sir,” continued she, disregarding his interruption, “my father was hurried up; and as he looked over the basket the charge exploded, and the great stones flew up and blackened his face.  In a minute more he was safe above-ground.”

“But the poor man below?”

“He was dead, Sir.  It could not have been otherwise.  Father took it so to heart that he never did a day’s work underground again.  And when I was born, a few months afterward, I was christened Harry—­though that’s a lad’s name—­in memory of the friend that saved his life by the sacrifice of his own.”

“He might well have done that, and even more,” said Richard, “if more could have been done.”