“But I think we’re keeping too much to the right, Walter,” said Kenrick.
“Look here,” said Walter, stopping; “the truth is—and we may just as well be ready for it—that we’re between two dangers. On the right is Bardlyn rift; on the left we have the sides of Appenfell, and no precipices, but—”
“I know what you’re thinking of—the old mines.”
“Yes; that’s why I’ve been keeping to the right. I think even in this mist we could hardly go over the rift, for I fancy that we could at least discover when we were getting close to it; but there are three or four old mines; we don’t knew in the least where they lie exactly, and one might stumble over one of the shafts in a minute.”
“What in the world shall we do?” said Power, stopping, as he realised the full intensity of peril. “As it is we can’t see where we’re going, and very soon we shall have darkness as well as mist. Besides, it’s so frightfully cold, now that we are obliged to go slowly.”
“Let’s stop and consider what we’d best do,” said Kenrick. “Walter, what do you say?”
“We can only do one of two things. Either go on, and trust to God’s mercy to keep us safe, or sit still here and hope that the mist may clear away.”
“That last’ll never do,” answered Kenrick; “I’ve seen the mist rest on Appenfell for days and days.”
“Besides,” said Power, “unless we move on, at all hazards, night will be on us. A December night on Appenfell, without food or extra coverings, and the chance of being kept indefinitely longer—” the sentence ended in a shudder.
“Yes; I don’t know what we should look like in the morning,” said Kenrick. “Let’s move on, at all events; better that than the chance of being frozen and starved to death.”