the bar.

The two men made no objection. To her that cold, black cellar might seem
a refuge from the unseen horror centred here. It had not struck them so.
It had its own possibilities, and Jake wondered at her courage, as he
caught the sound of her groping advance and the sudden clatter and clink
of bottles as the door came up and struck the edge of the bar. There was
life and a suggestion of home in that clatter and clink, and all
breathed easier for a moment, but only for a moment. The something
lying there behind them, or was it almost under their feet, soon got its
hold again upon their fears, and Jake found himself standing
stock-still, listening both ways for that dreaded, or would it be
welcome, movement on the floor behind, and to the dragging sound of Mrs.
Quimby's skirt and petticoat as she made her first step down those
cellar-stairs. What an endless time it took! He could rush down there in
a minute, but she--she could not have reached the third step yet, for
that always creaked. Now it did creak. Then there was no sound for some
time, unless it was the panting of Quimby's breath somewhere over by the
bar. Then the stair creaked again. She must be nearly up.

"Here's matches and the candle," came in a hollow voice from the
trap-stairs.

A faint streak appeared for an instant against the dark, then
disappeared. Another; but no lasting light. The matches were too damp to
burn.

"Jake, ain't you got a match?" appealed the voice of Quimby in
half-choked accents.

After a bit of fumbling a small blaze shot up from where Jake stood. Its
sulphurous smell may have suggested to all, as it did to one, the
immeasurable distance of heaven at that moment, and the awful nearness
of hell. They could see now, but not one of them looked in the direction
where all their thoughts lay. Instead of that, they rolled their eyes on
each other, while the match burned slowly out: Mrs. Quimby from the
trap, her husband from the bar, and Jake. Suddenly he found words, and
his cry rang through the room:

"The candle! the candle! this is my only match. Where is the candle?"

Quimby leaped forward and with shaking hand held the worn bit of candle
to the flame. It failed to ignite. The horrible, dreaded darkness was
about to close upon them again before--before----But another hand had
seized the candle. Mrs. Quimby has come forward, and as the match sends
up its last flicker, thrusts the wick against the flame and the candle
flar