Walter's fresh mount came down--a powerful, active mare, in good working
condition, but with weak, cracked hoofs that would not have carried her
a day's march on hard, stony roads.
Under the red sunset we started once more, with more good wishes;
indeed, I had ridden a mile before my fingers forgot the parting
hand-grip of my stalwart host.
Now in thinking or speaking of these night rides beforehand, one is apt
to invest them with a slight tinge of romance and excitement, which is
not unattractive. Let me say, that in practice, nothing can be more
dreary and disagreeable. I can fancy a canter through or canter over
some woodland paths, under the capricious light of a broad summer or
autumn moon, with one or more pleasant companions, being both
exhilarating and agreeable, but traverse the same number of miles in a
night of winter or early spring, when you have to blunder on at a foot's
pace in Indian file, thankful, indeed, when the snow or mud is only
fetlock deep, where, if you are in mood for conversation, you, dare not
often speak above a whisper (I never could see the sense of this, far
out in the wilds, but the guides are imperative), where the solitary
excitement is found in the possible proximity of a picket, or the
probable depth of a ford.
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