When the
thought of time or distance vaguely flitted across her mind, it seemed
that she had been riding for hours, and might have crossed one county
and entered another. She had long left familiar places behind. Riding
through and inclosed by the mist, she, herself, might have been a
wandering ghost, lost in unknown places. Where was he now--where was he
now?
Afterwards she could not tell how or when it was that she found herself
becoming conscious of the evidences that her horse had been ridden too
long and hard, and that he was worn out with fatigue. She did not know
that she had ridden round and round over the marshes, and had passed
several times through the same lanes. Childe Harold, the sure of foot,
actually stumbled, out of sheer weariness of limb. Perhaps it was this
which brought her back to earth, and led her to look around her with
eyes which saw material objects with comprehension. She had reached the
lonely places, indeed and the evening was drawing on. She was at
the edge of the marsh, and the land about her was strange to her and
desolate. At the side of a steep lane, overgrown with grass, and seeming
a mere cart-path, stood a deserted-looking, black and white, timbered
cottage, which was half a ruin.
Pages:
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882