It was
impossible to clear the saddle-bags without cutting them; I had drawn my
knife for this purpose, when a fourth struggle (in which his fore-hoofs
twice nearly struck me down), set Falcon once more on his
feet--trembling, and drenched with sweat, but materially uninjured. I
contrived to scramble into the saddle, and we plunged into the ford
again, heading up stream, till we struck the real gap, which was at
least thirty yards higher up. It is ill trusting to the accuracy of a
native's _carte du pays_. Another league brought me to the way-side hut
where I was instructed to ask for fresh guidance.
"Right over the big pasture, to the bars at the corner--then keep the
track through the wood to the 'improvements'--and the house was close
by." Such were the directions of the good-natured mountaineer, who
offered himself to accompany me: but this I would by no means allow.
Now, an up-country pasture, freshly cleared, is a most unpleasant place
to cross, after nightfall: the stumps are all left standing, and felled
trees lie all about--thick as boulders on a Dartmoor hillside; then,
however, a steady moon was shining, and Falcon picked his way daintily
through the timber, hopping lightly, now and then, over a trunk bigger
than the rest, but never losing the faint track: we got over the high
bars, too, safely, hitting them hard.
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