I think you would agree with me, that the only
object in the journey on which your eyes or thoughts delight to dwell,
is the "biggit land" that ends it.
On that especial night we had one thing in our favor--the reflection
from the fresh white ground carpet would have prevented darkness, even
without the light of a waxing moon. But it was slow and weary traveling.
It would have been cruelty to have forced the horses beyond a walk
through snow that in places was over their knees; besides which, we
dared not risk a jingle of stirrup or bridle-bit, where an outlying
picket might be within ear-shot. Twice we passed within twenty yards of
where the fresh track showed that the patrol had recently turned at the
end of his beat; but the guide knew the country thoroughly, and
professed to have no fears. To speak the truth, I had heard him, when in
the ingle-nook, and warm with Old Rye, vaunt so loudly his own sagacity
and courage, that I conceived certain misgivings as to how far either
were to be relied on. That night, however, he fully maintained part of
his character by leading us safety and surely through a perfect
labyrinth of tracks, sometimes diverging across the open country, and
occasionally plunging into woodland where there was no vestige of a
path.
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