the ground. Many of them hid their faces as though
unwilling to see death face to face--death which seemed so horrible in
this black hole so far from the earth's surface. The pickaxes and
shovels which were at work on the wall which barred their progress moved
but slowly. Finally, the last batch who were working stopped, having no
longer the strength to continue. In vain were their chests expanded to
take deeper breaths--they were stifled, their throats were contracted,
blood rushed to their heads; the air was failing them. The horrible
consciousness of certain death was weighing upon them. But in any case
the unfortunate men would not have had the strength to escape from this
grim cul-de-sac. Their torches, flung to the earth, burnt no longer, but
filled with smoke the gloom in which they were plunged.

The chief miner had an attack of vertigo. At his side a young miner
began to bleed copiously at the mouth; another was struggling on the
ground in an epileptic fit. Some began cursing and quarrelling or
accusing old Ivan and the chief miner. One man uttered a cry, for
another stretched at his side, had, in his frenzy, seized him by the
throat. The chief miner thought he saw red streaks in the black darkness
and felt as though something damp and slimy glided over his face. He
collected all his remaining strength, rose with difficulty and took up
his pickaxe again. His legs tottered. Several times he buried the pick
in the black mass of earth which scattered and crumbled beneath his
blows; his tool sank under the projecting rock and fragments of damp
earth fell with a dull sound. He felt his arms grow numb and threaten to
drop the tool.

"Can any of you help me?" he murmured, but he perceived with terror that
he was voiceless, for although he thought he had spoken aloud, no one
had heard him. It was like a struggle in a nightmare when the dreamer
sees some terrible sight, e.g., an assassin creeping towards his bed,
and tries to cry but in vain, for he is dumb. He makes a fresh effort as
fruitless as the last and sees the assassin's knife come nearer. A
fiendish face bends over him. He collects his last strength; it seems to
him that his cry must wake the whole house and be heard in the street,
yet the sleeping cat curled up on his bed does not hear the feeble groan
which escapes from his labouring chest, "Come and help me!"

Well, it was the end. There was nothing more to hope for. Mechanically
his hand again thrust the