We began to think we should never reach that farmhouse, and that we had
either missed our way or had been misinformed, when at length we reached
the desired haven at a point where a gate guarded the entrance to the
moor. All was in darkness, but we went to the house and knocked at the
front door. There was no response, so we tried the shutters that
barricaded the lower windows, our knocks disturbing the dogs at the back
of the house, which began to bark and assisted us to waken the
occupants. Presently we heard a sleepy voice behind the shutters, and my
brother explained the object of our visit in a fine flow of language
(for he was quite an orator), including references, as usual, to our
"walking expedition," a favourite phrase of his. As the vehement words
from within sounded more like Gaelic than English, I gathered that his
application for lodgings had not been successful. Tired as I was, I
could not help laughing at the storm we had created, in which the
"walking expedition" man heartily joined. But what were we to do? Here
we were on a stormy night, ten miles from the inn at Dalmally, which for
aught we knew might be the next house, hungry and tired, cold and wet;
and having covered thirty miles that day and thirty miles the day
before, how could we walk a further ten miles? Our track was unfenced
and bounded by the river on one side and the moors on the other, but
presently we came to a place where the surface of the moor rose sharply
and for some distance overhung the road, forming a kind of a cove.
Pages:
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240