“The fog. I don’t know where we are.”
“No,” she said calmly. “You’ve been asleep.”
“Haven’t you?”
“Not lately. But I don’t think there’s any use in riding on. We’ve lost our bearings.”
She was ahead; evidently had taken the lead while I slept. That realization straightened me, shamed, in my saddle. The fog, fleecy, not so wet as impenetrable—when had it engulfed us?
“How long have we been in it?” I asked, thoroughly vexed.
“An hour, maybe. We rode right into it. I thought we might leave it, but we don’t. It’s as thick as ever. We ought to stop.”
“I suppose we ought,” said I.
And at the moment we entered into a sudden clearing amidst the fog enclosure: a tract of a quarter of an acre, like a hollow center, with the white walls held apart and the stars and moon faintly glimmering down through the mist roof overhead.