The wood grew thicker, and the sunbeams that shot previously in
broad slopes across their path soon became as lines of intensely-chequered
light piercing the grim shadows beneath. The trees, too, put on a more
sombre character; and the sward appeared choked with rank and noxious
weeds. It seemed a path rarely trod, and only to be recognised by
occasional openings through the underwood.
They travelled for some hours. Michael had taken the lead, and Anthony
with his prattling charge rode carelessly on. Looking round, the latter
suddenly checked his horse. A momentary alarm overspread his features as
he cried--
"Michael, you have surely mistaken the path: an hour's ride should have
brought us to the end of our journey, and our beasts have been footing
it on since morning."
"Heed not, comrade; thou wilt soon find we have the right track before
us. We shall be through the wood presently."
"Why, this is the road to Ingleton, if I mistake not; I hear the roar of
the Greta."
"Right--we shall be on our road to the old castle shortly."
They travelled on more silently than before, until the brawling of the
torrent they had heard for some time increased with rapid intensity.
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