His palms touched the pressed grasses where she had been, but he did not say a word.

He would not give her that satisfaction; and he told himself grimly that he had his opinion of a girl who would waste time in foolery, out here in the cold--with a sprained ankle, to boot.
He pulled a handful of the long grass which grows best among bushes.

It was dead now, and dry.

He twisted it into a makeshift torch, lighted and held it high, so that its blaze made a great disk of brightness all around him.

While it burned he looked for her, and when it grew to black cinders and was near to scorching his hand, he made another and looked farther.