"What is it?"
"Hallo!"
"What now?"
"The lake at last!--Our own loch! I know the shape of it well!
Hurrah!"
Everyone was overjoyed. They all gazed at it long and earnestly, and
unitedly came to the conclusion that it was the loch--probably at the
distance of a mile or so. Pushing forward with revived spirits, they
came upon the object of their hopes much sooner than had been
anticipated. In fact, it was not more than two hundred yards distant.
A wild yell of laughter mingled with despair burst from Fred as the lake
galloped away in the shape of a _white horse_! The untravelled reader
may possibly doubt this. Yet it _is a fact_ that a white horse was thus
mistaken for a distant lake!
The revulsion of feeling was tremendous. Everyone sighed, and Mr
Sudberry groaned, for at that moment the thought of poor Peter recurred
to his mind. Yet there remained a strange feeling of kindliness in the
breast of each towards that white horse. It was an undeniable proof of
the existence of animal life in those wild regions, a fact which the
deep solitude of all around had tempted them madly to doubt--unknown
even to themselves. Besides, it suggested the idea of an owner to the
horse; and by a natural and easy process of reasoning they concluded
that the owner must be a human being, and that, when at home, he
probably dwelt in a house. What more probable than that the house was
even then within hail?
Acting on the idea, Mr Sudberry shouted for two minutes with all his
might, the only result of which was to render himself extremely hoarse.
Then George tried it, and so did Fred, and Jacky awoke and began to
whimper and to ask to be let down. He also kicked a little, but, being
very tired, soon fell asleep again.
"You _must_ let me carry him now!" said Fred.
"I won't!"
Fred tried force, but George was too strong for him, so they went on as
before, Lucy leaning somewhat heavily on her father's arm.
Presently they heard the sound of water. It filled them with mitigated
joy and excitement, on the simple principle that _anything_ in the shape
of variety was better than _nothing_. A clap of thunder would have
raised in their depressed bosoms a gleam of hope. A flash of lightning
would have been a positive blessing. Mr Sudberry at once suggested
that it must be a stream, and that they could follow its course--wade
down its bed, if necessary--till they should arrive at "something!"
Foolish man! he had been long enough in the Highlands by that time to
have known that to walk down the bed of a mountain-burn was about as
possible as to walk down the shaft of a coal-mine. They came to the
edge of its banks, however, and, looking over, tried to pierce its
gloom. There was a pale gleam of white foam--a rumbling, rustling sound
beneath, and a sensation of moisture in the atmosphere.
"It rains!" said Mr Sudberry.
"I rather think it's the spray of a fall!" observed George.
Had Mr Sudberry known the depth of the tremendous gulf into which he
was peering, and the steep cliff on the edge of which he stood, he would
have sprung back in alarm. But he did not know--he did not entertain
the faintest idea of the truth so he boldly, though cautiously, began to
clamber down, assisting Lucy to descend.
Man, (including woman), knows not what he can accomplish until he tries.
Millions of glittering gold would not have induced any member of that
party to descend such a place in the dark, had they known what it was--
yet they accomplished it in safety. Down, down they went!
"Dear me, when shall we reach the foot? We must be near it now."
No, they were not near it; still down they went, becoming more and more
alarmed, yet always tempted on by the feeling that each step would bring
them to the bottom.
"What a noise the stream makes! why, it must be a river!"
No, it was not a river--it was a mere burn; quite a little burn, but--
what then? Little men are always fussier and noisier than big men;
little boys invariably howl more furiously than big boys. Nature is
full of analogies; and little streams, especially mountain streams,
always make more ado in finding their level than big rivers.
They got down at last, and then they found the stream rushing, bursting,
crashing among rent and riven rocks and boulders as if it had gone
furiously mad, and was resolved never more to flow and murmur, but
always to leap and roar. It was impassable; to walk down its banks or
bed was impossible, so the wanderers had to re-ascend the bank, and roam
away over black space in search of another crossing. They soon lost the
sound in the intricacies of cliffs and dells, and never again found that
stream. But they found a narrow path, and Fred announced the discovery
with a cheer. It was an extremely rugged path, and appeared to have
been macadamised with stones the size of a man's head. This led them to
suspect that it must be a ditch, not a path; but it turned out to be the
dry bed of a mountain-torrent--dry, at least, as regards running water,
though not dry in respect of numerous stagnant pools, into which at
various times each member of the party stepped unintentionally. It
mattered not--nothing could make them wetter or more miserable than they
were--so they thought. They had yet to learn that the thoughts of men
are forever misleading them, and that there is nothing more certain than
the uncertainty of all human calculations.