Now and then he added a bit of his kindling to the dying embers, and in the glow of the last stick he smoked his pipe, and as he smoked he drew from his wallet the golden snare.

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.