He began to despair of ever finding it. It would be
terrible, he thought, to lose it now, and be left alone in the dark.
But at last he came upon it and picked it up. It was very light; he
felt for the plug, it was gone; he turned the can upside down, it was
empty.
For the moment his heart stopped beating; he could almost feel the
pallor in his face, he could almost see the look of horror in his own
eyes. From this time forth he would be in darkness. It was not enough
that he was weak, sick, lost and alone in the mysterious depths of
this old mine, but now darkness had come, thick darkness to crown his
suffering and bar his path to freedom. His self-imposed courage had
almost given way. It required matchless bravery to face a peril such
as this without a murmur, and still find room for hope.
But he did his best. He fought valiantly against despair.
It occurred to him that he still had matches. He drew them from his
pocket and counted them. There were seven.
He poured the water from the chamber of his lamp and pulled out the
wick and pressed it. He thought that possibly he might make it burn a
little longer without oil. He selected one of the matches and struck
it against the rock at his side. It did not light. The rock was wet
and the match was spoiled.
The next one he lighted by drawing it swiftly across the sleeve of his
jacket. But the light was wasted; the cotton wick was still too wet to
ignite.
There was nothing left to him, then, save the matches, and they would
not light him far.
Pages:
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332