He held the blazing jacket in his
hand, looked around him for one moment to choose his way, and then
began to run.
It was a travesty on running, to be sure, but it was the best he could
do. He staggered and stumbled; he lurched rapidly ahead for a little
space and then moved with halting steps. His limbs grew weak, his
breath came in gasps, and the pain in his side was cutting him like a
knife.
But he thought he was going very rapidly. He could see so nicely too.
The flames, fanned by the motion, curled up and licked his hand and
wrist, but he scarcely knew it.
Then his foot struck some obstacle in the way and he fell. For a
moment he lay there panting and helpless, while the burning cloth,
thrown from him in his fall, lighted up the narrow space around him
till it grew as clear as day. But all this splendid glow should not be
wasted; it would never do; he must make it light him on his journey
till the last ray was gone.
He staggered to his feet again and ran on into the ever growing
darkness. Behind him the flames flared, flickered, and died slowly
out, and when the last vestige of light was wholly gone he sank,
utterly exhausted, to the floor of the mine, and thick darkness
settled on him like a pall.
A long time he lay there wondering vaguely at his strange misfortunes.
The fever in his blood was running high, and, instead of harboring
sober thought, his mind was filled with fleeting fancies.
It was very still here, so still that he thought he heard the
throbbing in his head.
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