It can but smoulder slowly." "It is here," cried Dalfin, lifting a fagot whose under side was scorched and blackened, though more by heat and smoke than flame.
Under that was a bushel or so of peat, the midst of which was but a black hollow, round the sides of which the fire glowed red, only waiting for the wind to fan it into life.

The turfs blazed a little in the draught as we cast them overboard quickly.

Then we sent all the fagots on that side after them.
"This is no chance," I said.

"There may be more yet.

We must get all this lumber cleared." It had been the same on the other side of the pile, but the peat was cold and dead, not having burned so long.