The flame in the fuse suddenly brightened and lit up the room. He turned to Margarita and saw her great eyes fixed upon his.
“Here comes the burst,” he said. “Stand by.”
The flame steadied, then began to shoot higher with a steady sputtering hiss till it was a foot high and scattering sparks.
“Keep your eyes tight shut,” he said. “And remember it may just as easily cut our chains as us. Here she comes.”
The flame changed its colour to a dull red, which smoked; it sputtered more loudly, then lessened, sank down and went out.
“Wait,” Sard said, “wait: it may be a delayed fuse.” He counted up to seventy-three, slowly. “No,” he said. “The fuse has failed: it is not going to explode.”
The light appeared at the door at the apex of the room: Sagrado came in and looked at them.
“First the pleasures, then the miseries of hope,” he said, “to make the victims despair.”
“We do not despair,” Sard said.
“Do you not?” Sagrado answered. “No; perhaps not yet. But you will.”