d
on as best we might, with doubt of reaching home any time, except by
special grace of God.

The fog came down upon the moors as thick as ever I saw it; and there
was no sound of any sort, nor a breath of wind to guide us. The little
stubby trees that stand here and there, like bushes with a wooden leg
to them, were drizzled with a mess of wet, and hung their points with
dropping. Wherever the butt-end of a hedgerow came up from the hollow
ground, like the withers of a horse, holes of splash were pocked and
pimpled in the yellow sand of coneys, or under the dwarf tree's ovens.
But soon it was too dark to see that, or anything else, I may say,
except the creases in the dusk, where prisoned light crept up the
valleys.

After awhile even that was gone, and no other comfort left us except to
see our horses' heads jogging to their footsteps, and the dark ground
pass below us, lighter where the wet was; and then the splash, foot
after foot, more clever than we can do it, and the orderly jerk of the
tail, and the smell of what a horse is.

John Fry was bowing forward with sleep upon his saddle, and now I could
no longer see the frizzle of wet upon his beard--for he had a very brave
one, of a bright red colour, and trimmed into a whale-oil knot, because
he was newly married--although that comb of hair had been a subject of
some wonder to me, whether I, in God's good time, should have the like
of that, handsomely set with shining beads, small above and large below,
from the weeping of the heaven. But still I could see the jog of his
hat--a Sunday hat with a top to it--and some of his shoulder bowed out
in the mist, so that one could say 'Hold up, John,' when Smiler put
his foot in. 'Mercy of God! where be us now?' said John Fry, waking
suddenly; 'us ought to have passed hold hash, Jan. Zeen it on the road,
have 'ee?'

'No indeed, John; no old ash. Nor nothing else to my knowing; nor heard
nothing, save thee snoring.'

'Watt a vule thee must be then, Jan; and me myzell no better. Harken,
lad, harken!'

We drew our horses up and listened, through the thickness of the air,
and with our hands laid to our ears. At first there was nothing to hear,
except the panting of the horses and the trickle of the eaving drops
from our head-covers and clothing, and the soft sounds of the lonely
night, that make us feel, and try not to think. Then there came a mellow
noise, very low and mournsome, not a sound to be afraid of, but to long