Calling on Attatak to pause, Marian struck a match. It flared up, then went out. A second one did the same. The third lighted the candle. There was just time for a hasty glance about. Gloomy brown walls lay to right and left of them, and the awful gloom of the cave was most alarming.
Glancing down at her feet, Marian uttered a low exclamation of surprise. Then, with such a definite and direct puff of wind as might come from human lips, the candle was snuffed out.
“Wha—what was it?” Attatak whispered. She was shaking so that Marian feared she would let the rifle go clattering to the rocky floor.
“Nothing,” Marian answered. “Really nothing at all. The ashes of a camp-fire, and I thought—thought,” she gulped, “thought I saw bones in the ashes!”
“Bones?” This time the rifle did clatter to the floor.
“Attatak,” Marian scolded; “Attatak. This is absurd!”
Groping in the dark for the rifle, she grasped a handful of ashes, then something hard and cold that was not the rifle.
“Ugh!” she groaned, struggling with all her might to keep from running away.
Again she tried for the rifle, this time successfully. She gave it to Attatak, with the admonition:
“Ca-ca!” (Do take care!)