As they went down deeper and deeper into the gorge, the darkness became so intense that Harry was only enabled to follow his guide by the sound of her moccasins.
“Here we are,” she finally said, in a low voice; “stand quiet a moment.”
He could hear her moving about, for several minutes, when she spoke:
“All is ready; strike a match, and we shall have a fire right away.”
As Harry drew out his match-safe he found that only two lucifers were in it.
“By jingo! suppose both of them go out!” he exclaimed, in a terrified whisper; “here goes!”
As he spoke, he drew the phosphorus swiftly along his sleeve, when it broke into a blaze.
“Where are you, Little Rifle?” he asked, looking anxiously around, and then, seeing her kneeling upon the ground, with the wood ready, he did the same, and at that instant, a puff of wind blew out the tiny flame, leaving both in blank darkness again.
“Whew!” whistled the lad, in genuine alarm, “only one match left! If that misses, we’re in a pretty scrape.”
It would be difficult to imagine the anxiety of the two, as, kneeling close together, and shutting out the wind as much as possible, the last remaining match was struck.