Again he groped about the floor, in desperation, hoping against conviction that the flint, steel, and tinder might be lying there. His hands passed over the cold damp rock; it was in vain; and weariness at length compelled him to desist. Now only did the whole horror of his situation lighten on him. The chasm lay between him and his way back. He might, possibly enough, by feeling, find the passage by which he had entered; but how could he traverse that awful abyss? He was buried alive.
He sat in the darkness listening.
He heard no sound whatever, save at long intervals a drip of water.
He stared into the blackness of night that surrounded him, but could see not the faintest trace of light. And yet—not at any great distance was the hall into which a pearly ray fell from an orifice above; but between him and the spot of light lay the well.
Were it not better to essay to return, and risk the headlong fall into that gulf, than to sit there in darkness, in solitude, till death by starvation came on him, and hear the slow ticking of the falling drops?
What chance of rescue had he?
True that he had sent word to his wife to meet him at the Ogofau—the caves, in the plural, not to seek for him in the one Ogof, in the singular, that was specially dreaded as the haunt of Gwen, and the place where slept the Five Saints.
Would his wife think of seeking him therein? Could she possibly venture so far from the light? It was not credible.
He tried to rise, but his limbs were stiff, and he shivered as with cold.
Cautiously, with extended hands, he groped for the wall, and finally reached it. Then, passing them along, he felt his way towards the opening to the passage. But as to his direction, of that he knew nothing, could form no conjecture. While searching for his kindling tools, he had turned himself about and lost every inkling as to the course by which he had entered.