food in our pockets, Ringan and I were enfolded in the silence of the
woods.




CHAPTER XXIII.

THE HORN OF DIARMAID SOUNDS.

We reached the gap, and made slantwise across the farther hill. I did
not dare to go clown Clearwater Glen, and, besides, I was aiming for a
point farther south than the Rappahannock. In my wanderings with Shalah
I had got a pretty good idea of the lie of the mountains on their
eastern side, and I had remarked a long ridge which flung itself like a
cape far into the lowlands. If we could leave the hills by this, I
thought we might strike the stream called the North Fork, which would
bring us in time to the neighbourhood of Frew's dwelling. The ridges
were our only safe path, for they were thickly overgrown with woods,
and the Indian bands were less likely to choose them for a route. The
danger was in the glens, where the trees were sparser and the broad
stretches of meadow made better going for horses.

The movement of my legs made me pluck up heart. I was embarked at any
rate in a venture, and had got rid of my desperate indecision. The two
of us held close together, and chose the duskiest thickets, crawling
belly-wise over the little clear patches and avoiding the crown of the
ridge like the plague. The weather helped us, for the skies hung grey
and low, with wisps of vapour curling among the trees. The glens were
pits of mist, and my only guide was my recollection of what I had seen,