He had one match left! One hope of life! He closed his matchbox. His
hands were trembling with the cold and more with nervous fear that shook
him in every limb. He could not bring himself to make the last attempt.
Up and down the cave and out and in he stamped, beating his hands to
bring back the blood and fighting hard to get back his nerve.
"This is all rotten funk!" he cried aloud, raging at himself. "I shall
not be beaten."
Summoning all his powers, he once more pulled out his matchbox, rubbed
his birch bark fine and, kneeling down, placed it between his knees
under the shelter of his hunting jacket. Kneeling there with the
matchbox in his hand, there fell upon his spirit a great calm. "Oh,
God!" he said quietly and with the conviction in his soul that there
was One listening, "help me now." He opened the matchbox, took out the
match, struck it carefully and laid it among the birch bark. For one
heart-racking moment it flickered unsteadily, then, catching a resinous
fibre of the bark, it flared up, shot out a tiny tongue to one of the
heavier bunches, caught hold, sputtered, smoked, burst into flame. With
the prayer still going in his heart, "God help me now," Cameron fed the
flame with bits of bark and tiny twigs, adding more and more till the
fire began to leap, dance, and snap, and at length gaining strength it
roared its triumph over the grim terror so recently threatened.
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