The youth and gaiety were going out of my quest. I could only plod
along dismally, attentive to every movement of Shalah, praying
incessantly that we might get well out of it all. To make matters
worse, the travelling became desperate hard. In the Tidewater there
were bridle paths, and in the vales of the foothills the going had been
good, with hard, dry soil in the woods, and no hindrances save a
thicket of vines or a rare windfall. But in this glen, where the hill
rains beat, there was no end to obstacles. The open spaces were marshy,
where our horses sank to the hocks. The woods were one medley of fallen
trees, rotting into touchwood, hidden boulders, and matted briers.
Often we could not move till Donaldson and Bertrand with their hatchets
had hewn some sort of road. All this meant slow progress, and by midday
we had not gone half-way up the glen to the neck which meant the ridge
of the pass.
This was an occasion when Ringan showed at his best. He had lost his
awe of Elspeth, and devoted himself to making the road easy for her.
Grey, who would fain have done the same, was no match for the seafarer,
and had much ado to keep going himself. Ringan's cheery face was better
than medicine. His eyes never lost their dancing light, and he was
ready ever with some quip or whimsy to tide over the worst troubles.
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