“We’d better make the most of our time then.”
We rode as fast as we dared push the horses in view of the distance to be covered. I eased my animal up the hills, and now and again took a spell of half a mile or so on foot; but despite this, I was concerned to find that before we had covered another twenty miles he began to show signs of fatigue.
Then the storm burst upon us. It was rain, not snow; but rain in almost tropical force. It would not have been so bad, had we known the road; but we had already had to stop several times to make sure we were going right.
For two hours we plodded through a pelting storm until I was drenched and feared that Volna must be in the same condition.
“I wouldn’t care if I could see,” she said once. It was pitch dark, and we could only go at a walking pace.
“I shouldn’t care if you were not wet,” I answered, “though I confess I’d like to know where we are.”
“I am not very wet,” she said. “My fur cloak protects me. We shall get somewhere in the end.”
“In England we have a civilized habit of putting up sign posts,” I grumbled, as we came to another forked road and I was at a loss which to choose. “All the roads seem to be twins in this place.”
Which way to choose I could not even guess. I tried to judge which was the better road; but both appeared equally bad.
“Let the horses decide,” said Volna.