"I will not," he said. "Besides, I am tired myself."
He gave a few directions to his men, and they began to gather brushwood, which was scattered about in abundance. They heaped it up in a sheltered corner of the ravine, and the colonel, taking the candle out of his lantern, touched the flame to the dry boughs. Up it blazed, and, the wind catching it, the eager flame leaped from bough to bough. The wood snapped and cracked as the fire seized it, and the blaze, rising high, threw its warm and friendly light upon our faces.
Though a captive and with only twelve hours or so of life before me, according to the colonel's limitations, I achieved comfort. I made myself at home, and, pulling up a billet, sat down on it before the fire, where body and eyes could feast on its warmth and light.
The fire by contrast made the darkness beyond its radius darker. The colonel shivered, and then imitated my example, turning his palms to the flames.
"Makes me think of the winter of '64," he said.
"Which was a long time ago," I replied.
"But it may come again," said he.
"Never," said I; "the cause is dead and buried, colonel, and the mourners are few at this late day."
He turned his head away impatiently, as if he would not argue with a prisoner. His men kept silent too. I had hoped they would hear, but I could not say. They as well as I had brought food with them: we broke bread and ate.
The fire, which rose yards high, and crackled as it ate into the wood, threw streaks of light on the near slopes. Beyond, the darkness had settled down over peak and ridge, and the moon was behind a veil of clouds. The wind, rising again, moaned loudly down the ravine and swept the dry leaves before it. I would not have escaped if I could.