Gypsy stopped and looked around.
"N-no, I don't know as I do. But I dare say we saw them and forgot. Let's walk a little faster."
They walked a little faster. They walked quite as fast as they could go.
"See that great pile of rock," said Joy, presently, her voice trembling a little; "I know we didn't come by that before. It looks as if there were a precipice off there."
Gypsy made no answer. She was looking keenly around, her eyes falling on every rock, stump, tree, and flower, in search of the tiny, trodden path by which they had left the summit of the mountain. But there was no path. Only the bramble, and the grass, and the tangled thickets.
It was now very dark.
"I guess this is the way," spoke up Gypsy, cheerfully—"here. Take hold of my hand, Joy, and we'll run. I think I know where the path is. We had turned off from it a little bit."
Joy took her hand, and they ran on together. It grew darker, and grew darker. They could scarcely see the sky now, and the brambles grew high and thick and strange.
Suddenly Gypsy stopped, knee-deep in a jungle of blackberry bushes.
"Joy, I'm—afraid I don't—know the—way."