It seemed that already he had spent many days in that cave of death. He wondered that he was not overcome with hunger, and he felt an awful longing for water. Oh, for a drink, for a swallow, for a drop!
"There's plenty of water outside," he snarled. "There are streams, and rivers, and lakes! I'd give my everlasting soul to drink from one of them now!"
Dig! dig! dig! He was working in the same frantic manner as before. His strength still held out, and he was glad of that. Even if he could not escape, this was something to occupy his mind for the time and prevent him from going mad.
Suddenly a considerable mass of earth, set free by his efforts, fell into the cave. A stone, the size of a man's fist, struck him on the shoulder, but he did not mind the pain.
"I'm dragging the mountain down upon me!" he grated. "I don't care! I am glad! Let it come! Let it fall!"
He stood with one shoulder against the roof, reaching up into the hole he had made, still cutting away with this once keen knife, which was now dulled and blunted.
Suddenly something snapped—something fell on the heap of stones and earth at his feet.
It was the blade of the knife, which had been broken in the middle!
As he stood staring at the broken blade he found the light again growing dimmer, and then he saw that the second torch had burned to the point of expiring.
He lighted the last torch.