He struck a match and with the side / Of that great gulch to block the breeze / Lighted the wick, now on his knees, / Then lay out flat and, gun ahead / In one hand, candle flickering red / Inside the dark, stale tunnel, squirmed / Far in until his eyes confirmed / What he already knew was there. / Hate-reddened, piercing, a fixed glare / Answered his flame. Farther apart / Than any eyes known to his art, / Yet they stared at the alien light / Straight on, as if their focused might / Could burn it backward on their own. / Though unlike any Wolfe had known, / They were still eyes, still in a cave, / And thus familiar. Neither brave / Nor frightened, candle held out front / As on a many a routine hunt, / His pistol cocked, Wolfe aimed between / The eyes and squeezed. The gun had seen / Long years of use and never failed / Till now. In that dark shaft / Wolfe paled to hear the click. Four, five times more / He tried, then to the rocky floor / Let the gun drop.