Sometimes
he was left alone as the women went about their various avocations
in the village, but he was so securely bound that to him as to them
his escape appeared altogether impossible. The day passed heavily
and slowly. The cloth had been removed from his mouth, but he was
parched with thirst, while the tightly bound cords cut deeply into
his flesh.
He had once asked for water, but his request had been answered with
such jeers and mockery that he resolved to suffer silently until
the last. At length the darkness of the winter evening began to
fall when a thought suddenly struck him. On the hearth a fire was
burning; he waited until the women had again left the hut. He could
hear their voices without as they talked with those in the next
cottage. They might at any moment return, and it was improbable
that they would again go out, for the cold was bitter, and they
would most likely wait indoors for the return of the men.
This then was his last opportunity. He rolled himself to the fire,
and with his teeth seized the end of one of the burning sticks.
He raised himself into a sitting position, and with the greatest
difficulty laid the burning end of the stick across the cords which
bound his wrists. It seemed to him that they would never catch
fire. The flesh scorched and frizzled, and the smoke rose up with
that of the burning rope. The agony was intense, but it was for
life, and Malcolm unflinchingly held the burning brand in its place
until the cords flew asunder and his hands were free.
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