Coiled in the hollow of his hand and catching the red light
of the pitch-laden fagot it shone with the rich luster of rare
metal. Not until the pitch was burning itself out in a final
sputter of flame did Philip replace it in the wallet.
With the going of the fire an utter and chaotic blackness shut him
in. Feeling his way he crawled through the door of his tunnel,
over the inside of which he had fastened as a flap his silk
service tent. Then he stretched himself out in his sleeping-bag.
It was surprisingly comfortable. Since he had left Breault's cabin
he had not enjoyed such a bed. And last night he had not slept at
all. He fell into deep sleep. The hours and the night passed over
him. He did not hear the wailing of the wind that came with the
dawn. When day followed dawn there were other sounds which he did
not hear. His inner consciousness, the guardian of his sleep,
cried for him to arouse himself. It pounded like a little hand in
his brain, and at last he began to move restlessly, and twist in
his sleeping-bag.
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