The blue sky grew murky-white before sundown, and night fell intensely
cold. The Nevil who guided us on foot had much the best of it, and I
often dismounted, to walk by his side. If he who sang the praises of the
"wild northwester" had been with us then, I doubt if he would not have
abated of his enthusiasm. The bitter snow-laden blast, even where thick
cover broke its vicious sweep, was enough to make the blood stand still
in the veins of the veriest Viking. After riding about ten miles, we
left the rough paths we had hitherto pursued, and struck, across
country. For two hours or more we forced our way slowly and
painfully through bush and brake--through marshy rills and rocky
burns--demolishing snake-fences whenever we broke out on a clearing.
Shipley led his mare almost the whole way; and I, thinking the saddle
safest and pleasantest conveyance over ordinarily rough ground, was
compelled to dismount repeatedly.
It was about one o'clock in the morning of Sunday, the 5th of April: we
were then crossing some tilled lands, intersected by frequent narrow
belts of woodland. Our course ran parallel to the mountain-road leading
from Greenland to Petersburg; the former place was then nearly three
miles behind us, and our guide felt certain that we had passed the
outermost pickets.
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