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. We
kept very still, but now and again Elspeth's laugh rang out at his
fooling, and it did my heart good to hear it.

After midday the glen seemed to grow darker, and I saw that the blue
sky, which I had thought changeless, was becoming overcast. As I looked
upwards I saw the high ridge blotted out and a white mist creeping
down. I had noticed for some time that Shalah was growing uneasy. He
would halt us often, while he went a little way on, and now he turned
with so grim a look that we stopped without bidding.

He slipped into the undergrowth, while we waited in that dark, lonesome
place. Even Ringan was sober now.

Elspeth asked in a low voice what was wrong, and I told her that the
Indian was uncertain of the best road.

"Best road!" she laughed. "Then pray show me what you call the worst."

Ringan grinned at me ruefully. "Where do you wish yourself at this
moment, Andrew?"

"On the top of this damned mountain," I grunted.

"Not for me," he said. "Give me the Dry Tortugas, on a moonlight night
when the breaming fires burn along the shore, and the lads are singing
'Spanish Ladies.' Or, better still, the little isle of St. John the