The lantern held by the stranger cast a delta of golden light on the stony road and the pony's hoof, which Mary raised to her knee. There, safely embedded behind the iron shoe, lay an ugly-looking flint.
"Have you a knife?" asked Mary.
Her hands were trembling, because the pony's breath came short and nervously. Every minute she expected him to start forward, and her imagination depicted her prostrate figure trampled below his hoofs.
"I've got a knife, but it isn't much good. One blade's broken. I might try, though, if you'll let me. You'll get so muddy."
"I won't," lied Mary stoutly. One knee was in a puddle, and she felt very wet, but she hated being seen at a disadvantage, and thought that her dignity could only be maintained by independence. "Give me the knife, please."
He passed it to her in silence, and she fumbled with frozen fingers at the blade.
"Can't you undo it for me?" she complained querulously.
The stranger unfastened the blade and stood silently holding the lamp. Mary struggled with the flint, but her usually capable hands were incapacitated by cold. The lamplight danced and glimmered across the snow. Cold trickles of melting sleet insinuated themselves between her collar and her neck. The flint did not move.
The stranger spoke again, very meekly:
"Won't you let me try?"