Never was a match struck more carefully. It was the only one, and on its aid at the outset the whole attempt of escape rested. Jack breathed a prayer of thanksgiving as the match sputtered and flared to a steady flame. Next moment paper and sticks were burning briskly. The fire mounted, lapping gently at the boards of the wall.
Jack, kneeling closely, watched earnestly. There was nothing more for him to do now; he had only to wait for his servant, the fire, to prepare the way. He shuddered a little at the thought that the servant might become the master—that in the end he might perish miserably in a fire-trap of his own devising.
He stood up, and, by an effort of will, thrust the thought from him, lest fear drain him of the energy needed for the flight to come. He forced himself to think of anything else, rather than of a failure so horrible—of Nell, who would be waiting for him in a mood of hope and despair intermingled; of Jim Maxwell, who would be ready in this time of need. He pictured the trapper with his dogs, waiting patiently on the snow where the spruce shadows fell.
THE TRAPPER, WITH HIS DOGS, WAITING PATIENTLY ON THE SNOW.
The flame rose higher and higher. The dry boards in the partition were smoking. Little lines of sparks ran over the rough surface, then died. The smoke from the boards grew heavier. The acrid odor filled the cell. Jack coughed and dropped again to his knees, in order to avoid the worst of the fumes. The heat increased, but it was not sufficient to cause any particular discomfort. Jack had vastly more fear that the increasing volume of smoke might overcome him before he should have opportunity for carrying out his project. Presently, however, he was greatly heartened by observing that there was draft which carried the greater part of the smoke out of the cell through the grating in the door. As he looked, he saw that the other room was filled already with dense clouds of smoke. He took further comfort from the fact that the fumes were not apparently escaping into the main body of the house, where they might have given the alarm.
In the cell, the lower boards of the partition had burst into flame. The heat from them was now so great that Jack crawled away from it into the farthest corner. The tiny room was like an oven, and to add to the discomfort of it and the deadly danger, the smoke thickened visibly, notwithstanding the current passing out through the door.
Jack realized, with a thrill of horror, that here was a duel—a duel to the death. It was a duel between him and those fiercely darting flames. Rather, it was a duel between him and those blazing boards in the partition—a duel of endurance between him and them. Which would be the first to yield? If the boards should hold out the longer, then he—! Jack shuddered once again, with a wry smile over the irony of fate. Here, in this rigorous climate, men went often hand-in-hand with a Death whose scythe was edged with ice. Jack had contemplated the possibility of being some time struck down by the numbing cold. It had never occurred to him that in this Arctic land he might die in a hell of his own stoking.
The stifling prisoner dared hope that at last the blaze had weakened the boards sufficiently for his purpose. Whether or no, his suffering drove him to action. The heat was intolerable now. Sweat poured from him. The pungent smoke blinded him, and bit cruelly at throat and lungs. Still without rising to his feet, Jack laid hold of the chair, which was just beside him, and hobbled clumsily toward the partition, pushing the chair before him.
Even this comparatively slight exertion caused the perspiration to gush in new abundance, and here, closer to the flame, the temperature was well-nigh unbearable. Jack's head swam. He felt his senses failing. It was only by a tremendous effort that he regained control of himself. He was aware of his mortal peril. Any least weakening or faltering now would mean his destruction. It was, indeed, a duel to the death—a duel of endurance between him and a foe that knew no mercy.