We met very few persons on the road, and saw very few houses, and it
seemed to us a marvel afterwards that we ever reached Sturminster (or
Stourminster) that night. It would have been bad enough if we had been
acquainted with the road, but towards the close of our journey we could
hear the river running near us for miles in the pitch darkness, and
although my brother walked bravely on in front, I knew he was afraid of
the water, and no doubt in fear that he might stumble into it in the
dark. We were walking in Indian file, for there was no room to walk
abreast in safety, while in places we had absolutely to grope our way.
We moved along
Like one who on a lonely road
Doth walk in fear and dread.
And dare not turn his head,
For well he knows a fearful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
It is perhaps unnecessary to explain that the "fearful fiend" was not
either my brother or myself, but some one supposed to be somewhere in
the rear of us both; but in any case we were mightily pleased when we
reached the "King's Arms" at Sturminster, where we were looked upon as
heroes, having now walked quite 1,100 miles.
(_Distance that day, twenty-eight miles_.
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