But it was better to go even a little way than to
remain here.
He rose to his feet and struck a match on his sleeve, but it broke
short off at the head, and the sputtering sulphur dropped into the
stream and was quenched. He struck another, this time with success.
He saw the heading; the way was clear; and he started on, holding one
hand out before him, touching at frequent intervals the lower wall of
the passage with the other.
But his side pained him when he tried to walk: he had struck it
heavily in his last fall; and he had to stop in order to relieve it.
After a time he arose again, but in the intense darkness and with that
strange confusion in his brain, he could not tell in which direction
to go.
He lighted another match; it sputtered and went out.
He had two matches left. To what better use could he put them than to
make them light him as far as possible on his way? He struck one of
them, it blazed up, and with it he lighted the stick of the imperfect
one which he had not thrown away. He held them up before him, and,
shielding the blaze with his hand, he moved rapidly down the narrow
passage.
He knew that he was still in the heading and that if he could but
follow it he would, in time, reach the slope.
His light soon gave out; darkness surrounded him again, but he kept
on.
He moved from side to side of the passage, feeling his way.
His journey was slow, very slow and painful, but it was better to keep
going, he knew that.
Pages:
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333