The Island Stallion by Walter Farley Page A

cried.
    Striking a match, Pitch moved up toward Steve. Ahead they saw that the tunnel took a sharp right-angle turn to a short flight of steps cut in the stone. Eagerly they rushed up the steps, and before the lighted match had gone out completely they saw that the tunnel now ran up instead of down.
    Then it was dark again.
    “Careful,” Pitch warned. “Let’s go slowly now.”
    Steve went forward, his head and shoulders down as before, his skinned hands trailing the walls on either side of him. The low, humming sound became louder. It rushed and roared in his ears. His half-steps came faster until he was running again.
    “Slower, Steve! You’re going much too fast,” Pitch warned from behind. “Stop, and we’ll light another match now.”
    In the light of the burning match, they saw that the tunnel continued to lead upward. Steve plunged forward. After the light died out, he had gone only a few yards when his right shoulder crashed heavily against stone. He reeled back from the force of the impact, falling at Pitch’s feet.
    Quickly Pitch struck another match and bent down toward Steve. The worry in his eyes turned to anger when he saw that Steve was all right and climbing to his knees. “You fool, Steve!” he shouted. “You can’t go plunging through this tunnel. You should know that bynow!” Then the anger left his voice as he said, “I’ll go first from now on, Steve. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
    Steve nodded, but he was only conscious of the ever-increasing roar ahead of them. “We must be very close to it now,” he said.
    The tunnel took a sharp turn to the left this time, and Pitch struck another match. Ahead, the tunnel continued to lead upward, but Pitch too knew they were almost at the end. The roar had become the distant sound of rushing water. They moved forward, with Pitch striking matches more frequently than before.
    Soon they noticed that the ceiling of the tunnel was gradually becoming higher. They were able slowly to straighten their backs until finally they were standing upright for the first time since they had left the chamber.
    Pitch struck another match, and this time they saw the waters of a very narrow but fast-flowing stream plunging directly across their path. They moved forward. The tunnel came to an end at a doorway leading to a high natural cut in the rocks through which the underground stream flowed. It came from their right, rushing past them and continuing downward. Along the stream a narrow path had been cut in the stone.
    Turning to Pitch, Steve asked anxiously, “Shall we go down or up the stream?”
    Pitch had bent down to the water and was tasting it. “Fresh water,” he announced.
    Steve drank with him, then said, “I think we should follow the stream down, don’t you, Pitch? It has to lead somewhere.”
    “I think we should, Steve.”
    Striking another match, they walked cautiously along the stream. They had gone only a short distance when Steve said quickly, “I’d swear it’s getting lighter, Pitch. Don’t you notice it?”
    “It doesn’t seem to be quite so dark,” Pitch agreed cautiously.
    They struck another match and saw the gradual curve in the course of the stream. While the match burned they walked quickly forward and then slowed down as the light flickered and went out.
    The burned match dropped from Pitch’s fingers as he grabbed hold of Steve’s arm. Ahead of them the blackness of the curving stream gave way to a dim gray light. They rushed forward, needing no burning match to guide their running feet. Rounding the curve, they came to an abrupt stop as they saw a large opening in the rocks through which came the light of late afternoon.
    They stood there quietly, neither of them saying a word. And when they walked forward again their steps were unhurried as though each was experiencing an emotion he wanted to prolong. For they were walking from the fear of death into the light of the living.
    The roar of the stream became louder but