“How did you get it alight?”
“By striking it on the box.”
"How could that light it? Is there a bit of tiny flint on the match and steel on the box?
“No, there is not. I don’t know how the fire comes—but it comes somehow.”
“That must be a very curious contrivance, uncle.”
“Whether curious or not is no concern of yours.”
He struck another match and held it aloft. The girl stood on one side of the cart, he on the other. The lucifer flame twinkled in her eyes. Her hair was ruffled with sleep.
As Pasco looked at her by the dying flame, he was considering what to do. He had no doubt that he was insecure so long as she lived. Desperate, hardened, projected along an evil course, could he withhold his hand now and not make himself secure? Would it not be weakness as well as folly to allow this testimony to remain who could at any moment reveal his guilt? But if he were to strike her down with a stake or stone, what could he do with the body?
“Take care, uncle,” said Kate. “There is dry furze here. If the spark falls, there may be a blaze.”
He extinguished the match with his fingers. He did not desire that his course should be marked by fires.