n yesterday's, for there were long and
weary hills to climb; and in journeys, as in life, it is a great deal
easier to go down hill than up. However, they kept on, with unabated
perseverance, and the hill has not yet lifted its face to heaven that
perseverance will not gain the summit of at last.

They walked upon the rim of the Devil's Punch Bowl; and Smike listened
with greedy interest as Nicholas read the inscription upon the stone
which, reared upon that wild spot, tells of a murder committed there by
night. The grass on which they stood, had once been dyed with gore;
and the blood of the murdered man had run down, drop by drop, into
the hollow which gives the place its name. 'The Devil's Bowl,' thought
Nicholas, as he looked into the void, 'never held fitter liquor than
that!'

Onward they kept, with steady purpose, and entered at length upon a wide
and spacious tract of downs, with every variety of little hill and
plain to change their verdant surface. Here, there shot up, almost
perpendicularly, into the sky, a height so steep, as to be hardly
accessible to any but the sheep and goats that fed upon its sides, and
there, stood a mound of green, sloping and tapering off so delicately,
and merging so gently into the level ground, that you could scarce
define its limits. Hills swelling above each other; and undulations
shapely and uncouth, smooth and rugged, graceful and grotesque, thrown
negligently side by side, bounded the view in each direction; while
frequently, with unexpected noise, there uprose from the ground a
flight of crows, who, cawing and wheeling round the nearest hills, as if
uncertain of their course, suddenly poised themselves upon the wing and
skimmed down the long vista of some opening valley, with the speed of
light itself.

By degrees, the prospect receded more and more on either hand, and as
they had been shut out from rich and extensive scenery, so they emerged
once again upon the open country. The knowledge that they were drawing
near their place of destination, gave them fresh courage to proceed; but
the way had been difficult, and they had loitered on the road, and Smike
was tired. Thus, twilight had already closed in, when they turned
off the path to the door of a roadside inn, yet twelve miles short of
Portsmouth.

'Twelve miles,' said Nicholas, leaning with both hands on his stick, and
looking doubtfully at Smike.

'Twelve long miles,' repeated the landlord.

'Is it a good road?'