I set the tinder-box on the floor between my heels,
felt for the table, and righted it; then, picking up the box again,
set it on the table and twisted off the lid. I found flint and steel
at once, dipped my fingers into the box to make sure of the tinder
and the brimstone matches, and so, after another pause to listen,
essayed to strike out the spark.
This, for a pair of trembling hands, proved no easy business, and at
first promised to be a hopeless one. But the worst moment arrived
when, the spark struck, I stooped to blow it upon the tinder, the
glow of which must light up my own face while it revealed to me
nothing of the surrounding darkness. Still, it had to be done; and,
keeping a tight hold on what little remained of my courage, I thrust
in the match and ignited it.
While the brimstone caught fire and bubbled I drew myself erect to
face the worst. But for what met my eyes as the flame caught hold of
the stick, even the overturned table had not prepared me.
The furniture of the room lay pell-mell, as though a cyclone had
swept through it. The very pictures hung askew. Of the drawers in
the dresser some had been pulled out bodily, others stood half open,
and all had been ransacked; while the fragments of china strewn along
the shelves or scattered across the floor could only be accounted for
by some blind ferocity of destruction--a madman, for instance, let
loose upon it, and striking at random with a stick.
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