As his senses grew clearer—along with the atmosphere—he arrived at a better understanding of the mishap that had befallen him. He did not, at first, regard it in the light of a misfortune—at least, not a very heavy one—and he was rather disposed to laugh at it as a ludicrous adventure.
It was not till he began to think of climbing out, and had actually made the attempt, that he became aware of a difficulty hitherto unsuspected; and the contemplation of which at once inspired him with a feeling of alarm.
A second attempt to get out was unsuccessful as the first; a third equally so; a fourth had no better issue; a fifth was alike a failure; and after the sixth, he sank down upon the rotten rubbish in a state bordering on despair.
Well might he have exclaimed,
“Facilis descensus Averni, sed revocare gradum.”
But the mind of Mr Smythje was now under the influence of an indescribable awe, which excluded all thoughts of the classic.
When reflection came to his aid, it was only to make more certain the fearful reality of his situation. The more he reflected upon it, the more he became convinced of the peril into which his rash leap had precipitated him.
It was not simply a slight mishap—a ludicrous adventure—he no longer saw it in that light. Neither was it a mere misfortune; but a positive danger—the danger of his life.
Yes, his life was most certainly in danger; and he was not slow in arriving at this knowledge. The chain of inductive reasoning that led to it was but too palpably clear—every link of it—from premisses to conclusion. If he could not help himself out of the prison, in which by his unlucky leap he had incarcerated himself, who was to help him?
Hope could not long dwell upon Quashie. The darkey had been left some distance off; and since he had not answered to his calls, he must be asleep or straying. In either case—or even if awake and still on the ground of the bivouac—what chances would Quashie have of finding him?