“I think so. But out with your knife and cut some twigs; and where are your flint and steel?”
“What are you going to do ?”
“Set the forest on fire—the wind is from us—and instead of following us farther—and who knows that they won’t try?—instead of following us farther they will have to hark back and run for their lives.”
Without another word we set to work gathering twigs, which we place among the trees. Then I dig up with my knife and add to the heap several pieces of the brimstone impregnated turf. This done, I strike a light with my flint and steel.
“Good!” exclaims Carmen. “In five minutes it will be ablaze; in ten, a brisk fire;” and with that we throw on more turf and several heavy branches which, for the moment, almost smother it up.
“Never mind, it still burns, and—hark! What is that?”
“The baying of the hounds and the cries of the hunters. They are nearer than I thought. To the azuferales for our lives!”
The moor, albeit in some places yielding and in others treacherous, did not, as I feared, prove impassable. By threading our way between the smoking sulphur heaps and carefully avoiding the boiling springs we found it possible to get on, yet slowly and with great difficulty; and it soon became evident that, long before we gain the forest the hounds will be on the moor. Their deep-throated baying and the shouts of the field grow every moment louder and more distinct. If we are viewed we shall be lost; for if the blood-hounds catch sight of us not even the terrors of the azuferales will balk them of their prey. And to our dismay the fire does not seem to be taking hold. We can see nothing of it but a few faint sparks gleaming through the bushes.
But where can we hide? The moor is flat and treeless, the forest two or three miles away in a straight line, and we can go neither straight nor fast. If we cower behind one of the smoking brimstone mounds we shall be stifled; if we jump into one of the boiling springs we shall be scalded.
“Where can we hide?” I ask.