"You MUST take a little water," Elma murmured, pouring out the
last few drops for him into the tin cup--for Cyril had brought a
small bottleful that morning for his painting, as well as a packet
of sandwiches for lunch. "You're dreadfully tired. I can see your
lips are parched and dry with digging."

She was deathly pale herself, and her own eyes were livid, for by
this time she had fairly given up all hope of rescue; and, besides,
the air in the tunnel was so foul and stupefying, she could hardly
speak; indeed, her tongue clung to her palate. But she poured out
the last few drops into the cup for Cyril and held them up imploringly,
with a gesture of supplication. These two were no strangers to one
another now. They had begun to know each other well in those twelve
long hours of deadly peril shared in common.

Cyril waved the cup aside with a firm air of dissent.

"No, no," he said, faintly, "you must drink it yourself. Your need
is greater far than mine."

Elma tried to put it away in turn, but Cyril would not allow her.
So she moistened her mouth with those scanty last drops, and turned
towards him gratefully.

"There's no hope left now," she said, in a very resigned voice.
"We must make up our minds to die where we stand. But I thank you,
oh, I thank you so much, so earnestly."

Cyril, for his part, could hardly find breath to speak.