Then suddenly the gallery ended. It wasn't a fall of rock that faced me. It was just empty space. I raked that space with the beam of my torch. It was a great cavern, whether natural or not I don't know. The sea slopped about in the bottom of it. I thought I could dimly see the black surface of the water on the edge of my torch's visibility.
There was no exit that way. The sides of the cavern fell away sheer. Even if I could have got down, there was no indication that there was a way out below. Water cascaded in little falls down the smooth, weed-grown rock. I scrambled back then, up the funnel and along the tunnel and back to the gallery from which I had started.
No good following the wind. I switched my torch out and tried to remember the way I had come. If I could just retrace my steps. I faced the gallery again and started walking. I took the left-hand fork. I went on, following my nose, selecting passages at random. Pretty soon I knew I was lost. There were falls I had not seen before, drifts knee-deep in ochre-coloured water, nothing I recognised. I found a weed-grown shaft that went up vertically and disappeared beyond the range of my torch without any circle of moonlight showing its pin-point light of hope at the top. Probably one of the old shafts that had been blasted in. Water became more evident. It poured from every crevice and ran knee-deep along a gallery I walked down. The roof of that gallery gradually lowered until the gallery was no more than a pipe down which the water poured, gurgling.
I went back again and tried another. This led me upwards, passing me from level to level. It had a plan. I could understand it. Then it suddenly petered out for no apparent reason except, of course, that the tinners had come to the end of the lode in that particular spot. I went back again, working my way down through the mine. If I could get within earshot of the pump — that would act as a guide for me. I followed the run of the water. The galleries were like narrow Gothic passages. And then suddenly they would open out into cathedral-like spaces where a broad seam had been worked, I worked my way down deep into the mine and the lower I went, the wetter it became. The black walls poured water. The air was dank and stale. There was no sound of the pump. No sound of the sea. Only the whispering trickle of water running over rock surfaces. A narrow winze took me down into a broader gallery. Here the water was almost up to my waist.
I struggled along it. I knew I should go back. I was too deep. But I couldn't face the thought of failure. The light of the torch was beginning to dim. For a time I refused to admit it. But down here in this swamped gallery with the dark surface of the water curving ahead of me I knew the battery was fading. The beam was no longer a white shaft of light. It had yellowed and lost its power. The change had been so gradual as to be almost imperceptible.
I forced my body forward through the weight of the cold water. Ahead the dark, polished surface was broken with water pouring in from the roof. And as I reached this point, my foot slipped from under me and I plunged forward, the water closing over my head. I came up gasping, holding the torch above my head and feeling about with my feet for the muddy floor of the gallery. I found it and climbed out of the hole, cold and dripping. One glance at the roof told me that I had stepped into a shaft for there was a gaping hole there out of which water poured in a steady stream.
I knew then that I was down to the water level of the mine. Below me were miles and miles of workings, all flooded. There was nothing for it, but to go back. I was scared now. Really scared. It was the yellowing beam of my torch that scared me. The battery had been stored too long. It might last five minutes. It might last an hour. But my time was limited. I had to find a way out.
I glanced at my watch as I waded back along that flooded gallery. The luminous hands showed five minutes to eleven. I'd been underground about an hour. I turned up a steep raise, dragging my mud-filled boots out of the water. My haste was almost frantic now. I must get as near to the surface as possible before the torch gave out. If I could find a shaft that ran up to a gleaming circle of moonlight — I could try and climb it. At any rate I could stay there until daylight and then start calling for help. There wouldn't be much chance of any one hearing me. But at least it would give me some hope. Or if I could find one of the galleries that led out on to the face of the cliffs.
As I climbed, I began to search about with my face for a sign of a breeze that would indicate the direction of the sea or shaft. But the air was still and lifeless. The galleries were like a tomb. I began to think of the catacombs of Rome again. No, I mustn't think of that. I'd lose my head if I thought of that. There was that story by Edgar Allan Poe. What was it? The Cask of Amontillado. Damn Poe. He was the last writer I ought to be thinking of if I was to preserve my wits.
Then suddenly I stopped. A gentle throbbing sound was in my ears. Was it my blood beating in my temples? I was panting like a lunatic. Was it the blood, or was it the sound of the pump? I tried to forget the beating of my heart and listen. But I couldn't be sure. Fear and the still, damp air could play all sorts of tricks.
I went forward slowly, concentrating all my energies on listening. The gallery roof rose. A rock ledge ran up to a dark hole. The sound seemed to come from there. Or was it my imagination? It was so ephemeral. I climbed the ledge and crawled into a narrow tunnel that was comparatively dry. God, how dim my torch was getting. The tunnel broadened and lifted to a gallery. The throbbing sound became louder and sharper and turned to a dripping. The rock was softer here. Part of the floor had caved in. Water dripped there resonantly. That was the sound I had heard.
I switched the dimming torch off and leaned against the wall, closing my eyes so that the darkness would not be so apparent. That sudden spark of hope had vanished. I felt exhausted. I put the torch in my pocket and leaned my whole tired weight against the wall. I had to think. I hadn't long now before I should be in darkness. The gallery was utterly still. The only sound was the steady drip of the water. There was no breath of air to guide me.
And then suddenly I realised that my hands were touching, not granite, but a softer rock. I got my torch out again. Yes, it was softer rock. That was why the floor had caved in. This was the same sort of rock that I had encountered shortly after Manack had led me across that sloping. Of course, this bad bit of country might extend over a wide area of the mine. But it was unlikely. The mine was predominantly granite. Soft stone would be only likely to fill in a fissure in the granite country.
I went on again. I came to a winze and peered down it. My torch barely showed me the outline of the walls. But a breath of cool air seemed to caress my face. I went down the winze and turned left into a narrower gallery, following the air. The walls were granite here and the roof was low. At the next bend the gallery finished in nothingness. I stood in the gap and looked out into what at first appeared to be a cavern. But I could just make out a wall of rock rising opposite me.
And then with a gasp of joy I saw a ledge running down to a fall of rock. The rock of the fall was soft and the water pouring over it had welded it into a solid mass. I slid down on to it. Surely this was the way Manack had led me? Surely I wouldn't be mistaken? There couldn't be two falls so identical. As I went down the gallery I became more and more convinced that I had stumbled on to the track by which I had come. The rock walls were soft. The roof was full of crevices and great cracks. Lumps of broken rock lay on the slime-covered floor.