“You don’t think, then, that there is—reason for despair?”
“Despair? Certainly not. Why should there be?”
“O, I don’t know. I was afraid that this fire extended everywhere, like the great fire that once raged here.”
“The great fire? O, no. Such a thing as that can only take place once in centuries. That was the result of a combination of circumstances so extraordinary, that it is not likely that they will ever occur again. And just now, such a fire as that is a simple impossibility.”
“But this fire seems pretty bad,” said Bart, “and it’s certainly increasing.”
“This fire? O, this is nothing,” said the priest.
“In these woods, there is a fire somewhere every summer,—and it runs on till a rain shower comes. This is only a local affair, confined to this particular district. It may possibly extend for ten or twelve miles, and have a width of two or three miles. It is troublesome, and you perceive the heat in the air, and it sends out smoke for many miles; but there is nothing in it that is at all extraordinary. There is nothing in it that a man cannot escape from. It is not like the swift and hurricane speed of the great fire, that swept in one night through all this country, and made one vast waste of ashes and death before morning. O, no. As for your friend, he ought to be able to get along; and every brook that he comes to will give him fish to eat. It’s the greatest country for trout and salmon in the world. In fact, I don’t see the slightest cause for anxiety about him.”
These words gave Bart a relief that was inexpressible, and he was now freed from the terrible anxiety that had so long devoured him. The opinion of the priest was of great value, for he, no doubt, knew perfectly well just what danger there might be. His estimation of the fire afforded still greater relief. Bart had feared that it was some universal conflagration; but it now turned out to be a local affair, so commonplace that no one here regarded it.
“I think,” said the priest, “that we had better go back at once.”
“Go back?”