She ran to her hillock, stooped and broke a dozen matches, knowing too little of fire-making in the wind.

But at last she caught a wisp of dry grass, a few dry stems--others, the bits of wild plum branches.

She shielded her tiny blaze with her frock, looking back over her shoulder, where the black curtain was rising taller.

Now and then, even in the blaze of full day, a red, dull gleam rose and passed swiftly.

The entire country was afire.