CHAPTER IV
Flower o' the Flame
OOVERHEAD through the foliage, a sky was visible whose ebon darkness called to mind a thundercloud. Beneath it veils and whorls of smoke fled athwart the wreck. The heat was nearly intolerable; the voice of the fire was loud—snappings and cracklings and sharp detonations making an embroidery of sound upon a texture of sustained roaring like that of surf.
A heavy crashing made Alan turn his head, and he saw a terrified bear break cover and plunge on into the farther thickets.
Two minutes had passed of the ten when a sharp crackling brought him suddenly to a sitting position, to find that the Indian had touched a match to the pyre before departing. At Alan's feet the twigs were blazing merrily.
It would have been easy to snatch his limbs away, but another thought was in his mind: he did not move more than to strain his feet apart as far as their bonds permitted. He was conscious of scorching heat even through his cowhide hunting boots;
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