She spoke urgently, for he seemed inclined to linger. He turned at once.
“Yes. You must be famished. This is the way.”
He drew her hand through his arm with decision and began to lead her up one of the sandy tracks.
The mist closed like smoke about them, and Frances felt it wet upon her face. “We seem to be in the clouds,” she said.
“I think we are,” said Montague.
“You are sure we are going right?” she said.
He laughed at her. “Of course we are going right. Don’t you trust me?”
Trust him! The words sent a curious sensation through her. Did she trust him? Had she ever—save for that strange, delirious hour last night really trusted him? She murmured something unintelligible, for she could not answer him in the affirmative. And Montague laughed again.
Looking back upon that walk later, it seemed to her that they must have covered miles. It was not easy going. The track was rough, sometimes stony, sometimes overgrown. She stumbled often from weariness and exhaustion; and still they went on endlessly over the moor. Always they seemed to be going uphill, and always the mist grew thicker. Here and there they skirted marshy ground, splashing through puddles of black water, and hearing the sound of running streams close at hand but invisible in the ever-thickening mist.
It began to grow dark, and at last Frances became really anxious. They had not spoken for a long time, merely plodding on in silent discomfort, when abruptly she gave voice to her misgivings.