"Read," he cried, "I cannot see."
Opening the papers, Kalman proceeded to read them carefully, by the light of the lantern, French smoking calmly the while.
"Have you no better light than this, Rosenblatt?" said French at length. "Surely there are candles about here." He walked toward the back of the cave.
"Ah, my God!" cried Rosenblatt, seizing him and drawing him toward the table again. "Sit down, sit down. If you want candles, let me get them. I know where they are. But we need no candles here. Yes," he cried with a laugh, "young eyes are better than old eyes. The young man reads well. Read, read."
"There is another paper," said French after Kalman had finished. "There is a further agreement."
"Yes, truly," said Rosenblatt. "Is it not there? It must be there. No, I must have left it at my cabin. I will bring it."
"Well, hurry then," said French. "Meantime, my pipe is out."
He drew a match, struck it on the sole of his boot, lighted his pipe and threw the blazing remnant toward the back of the cave.
"Ah, my God!" cried Rosenblatt, his voice rising almost to a shriek. Both men looked curiously at him. "Ah," he said, with his hand over his heart, "I have pain here. But I will get the paper."
His face was livid, and the sweat was running down his beard. As he spoke he ran out and disappeared, leaving the two men poring over the papers together. Beside the burning heap of brushwood he stood a moment, torn in an agony of uncertainty and fear.