At every rustle in the grass, every flap of wing overhead, I paused, listening to the pounding of my heart.
I clasped closely in one hand the knife, my sole weapon of defence, and, as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom and could distinguish some things more clearly, I paused often, with uplifted head, to study some indistinct object in the darkness.

Thus advancing inch by inch, avoiding with care the least rustling of dry grass, I wriggled snake-like forward, until I began breasting the steeper incline of the mound, its summit now outlined against the lighter space of overarching sky.
All my rage deserted me when again in the open, actually attempting to achieve a purpose.

My brain cleared as by magic, every nerve steadying itself to meet whatsoever peril might be lurking along the path.
Half-way up the mound I lay close to the earth, peering steadily through the gloom.

There was no cover to crouch behind, the slope being totally bare of vegetation except for the short, dry grass, yet I felt reasonably secure from observation unless I entered that bar of light.

Unable to do more than guess, I concluded that the single flame, splitting the night like the shining blade of a sword, came from the northern compartment, while the southern half remained wrapped in silent darkness.