Then he slipped down and began to look for the string, which, fastened to the inner side of the roll, was hanging to the ditch. After a while he felt it with his hand. But then came the greatest difficulty, for he had to strike fire and ignite the string.
Kmita waited for a moment, thinking that the noise would increase somewhat among the soldiers in the breastworks. At last he began to strike the flint lightly with the steel. But that moment above his head was heard in German the question,—
“Who is there in the ditch?”
“It is I, Hans!” answered Kmita, without hesitation; “the devils have taken my ramrod into the ditch, and I am striking fire to find it.”
“All right, all right,” said the gunner. “It is your luck there is no firing, for the wind would have taken your head off.”
“Ah!” thought Kmita, “the gun besides my charge has still its own,—so much the better.”
At that moment the sulphur-string caught, and delicate little sparks began to run upward along its dry exterior.
It was time to disappear. Kmita hurried along the ditch with all the strength in his legs, not losing an instant, not thinking overmuch of the noise he was making. But when he had run twenty yards, curiosity overcame in him the feeling of his terrible danger.
“The string has gone out, there is moisture in the air!” thought he; and he stopped. Casting a look behind, he saw a little spark yet, but much higher than he had left it.
“Eh, am I not too near?” thought he; and fear hurried him forward.