280 



CHAPTER XXIII. 



MIST ON THE MOUNTAIN. 



I awoke early the next morning, and groping my way 

 clambered down the ladder. It was three o'clock, and 

 as dark as pitch ; and the gusts of cold damp air came 

 creeping round my bare knees, which just before had 

 been imbedded so warmly. Outside there was a drizzling 

 rain, and mist, and impenetrable blackness; in short, 

 to tell the honest truth, it looked miserably wretched. 

 With such weather there was little prospect of success, 

 and with — I don't know if it was a sigh, a groan, or a 

 growl of discontent — I drew back my gloomy face, and 

 went into the room to lace on my shoes. This done we 

 took our rifles and started. 



Most persons, doubtless, have walked out in a dark 

 night ; but if they have only done so on a tolerably 

 smooth road, they will have but an imperfect notion of 

 the unpleasantness attending every single step when the 

 path is strewn with large stones, loose fragments of 

 rock, broken up into holes or intersected by rivulets. 

 You do not see where you are stepping, and thus often 

 plant your foot so as to slip down a bank and let the 

 water fill your shoes brimmingly. This however does 

 not much matter, it is true, for it soon bubbles out 

 again ; but in going up a steep and slippery mountain, 



