Pitch nodded, and once again they made their way downward. They had traveled for about fifteen minutes when the burning match disclosed another tunnel, going still farther to the right.

“This is the end,” Pitch said dismally. “We may have been lucky enough to guess correctly the first time, but doing it again is asking too much of luck.”

Steve said slowly, “Will it be to the right or the left or back?”

They stood there long after the match had burned out, neither saying a word. Finally Pitch struck another match, and in the light their faces were haggard and old, far beyond their years. When the match burned out, Pitch took Steve by the arm and led him down the tunnel to the right.

They went along for an hour, coming across several more tunnels, and always they went to the right without stopping, without talking. It didn’t matter to them which direction they took now, for they were fully convinced they weren’t going to find their way back to the chamber. They still looked hopefully for the chalked arrows each time they came to another tunnel, but they really didn’t expect to find them either now.

After a while their stops to rest became more frequent, for they were conserving their energy. And the intervals between the striking of matches were longer, for the matches too had to be conserved. They needed the matches more than ever now. Not so much for showing them their way, as for the warmth they gave, a spiritual warmth that penetrated deeper and deeper into their very souls as they went along. Each time a match was struck they looked more eagerly at each other, as though they had not seen one another for a long, long time. Darkness did that to people. One could take only so much darkness. Their hands were raw from constant contact with the uneven wall, but they did not know they bled. Their cramped muscles no longer pained them; it was as though they had always walked in this hunched position, and always down, down. Was there no end to this descent? they asked themselves over and over again. Did it end nowhere? Yet the air remained fresh. It had been almost an hour since they had last seen a ventilation shaft running hundreds and hundreds of feet up to the surface. They had stood beneath it a long time, gazing fixedly at the small patch of blue sky above. Yes, it was blue now instead of gray. They had noticed that immediately. The rain must have come and gone, then. They had talked about it at length before giving up their patch of blue for the blackness ahead.

Much later they came to another tunnel, where Pitch slipped to the floor, saying, “I’m almost whipped, Steve. I’d like to rest awhile.”