“Horrible.  Do not think about it.  We shall get out before morning.”

“I am afraid not,” she said quietly.  “I am afraid we are going to die here.”

“Not if I can help it,” answered Malipieri.

“No.  Of course not.  I know you will do everything possible, and I am sure that if you could save me by losing your life, you would.  Yes.  But if you cannot break through the wall, there is nothing to be done.”

“The water may go down to-morrow.  It is almost sure to go down before long.  Then we can get out by the way we came in.”

“It will not go down.  I am sure it will not.”

“It is too soon to lose courage,” Malipieri said.

“I am not frightened.  It will not be hard to die, if it does not hurt.  It will be much harder for you, because you are so strong.  You will live a long time.”

“Not unless I can save you,” he answered, rising.  “I am going back to work.  It will be time enough to talk about death when my strength is all gone.”

He spoke almost roughly, partly because for one moment she had made him feel a sort of sudden dread that she might be right, partly to make her think that he thought the supposition sheer nonsense.

“Are you angry?” she asked, like a child.

“No!” He made an effort and laughed almost cheerfully.  “But you had better think about what you should like for supper in two or three hours!  It is hardly worth while to put out that lamp,” he added.  “It will burn nearly twelve hours, for it is big, and it was quite full.  There is a great deal of heat in it, too.”

He went away again.  But when he was gone, she drew the lamp over to her without leaving her seat, and put it out.  She was very tired and a little faint, and by and by the distant sound of the crowbar brought back the drowsiness she had felt before, and leaning her head against the Aphrodite’s curving waist, she lost consciousness.

He worked a good hour or more without result, came down to her, and found her in a deep sleep.  As he noiselessly left her, he wondered how many men could have slept peacefully in such a case as hers.

Once more he took the heavy bar, and toiled on, but he felt that his strength was failing fast for want of food.  He had eaten nothing since midday, and had not even drunk water, and in six hours he had done as much hard work as two ordinary workmen could have accomplished in a day.  With a certain amount of rest, he could still go on, but a quarter of an hour would no longer be enough.  He was very thirsty, too, but though he might have drunk his fill from the hollow of his hand, he could not yet bring himself to taste the water.  He was afraid that he might be driven to it before long, but he would resist as long as he could.

Every stroke was an effort now, as he struggled on blindly, not only against the material obstacle, but against the growing terror that was taking possession of him, the hideous probability of having worked in vain after all, and the still worse certainty of what the end must be if he really failed.