"There's nothing for it but to lie under a furze-bush." With two pocket-handkerchiefs he tied his horse's fore-legs close together, and sat down and lit a cigar. The furze-patch was quite hollow underneath and almost dry.
"It is nearly full moon," he said; "were it not for that it would be pitch dark. Good Lord! thirteen hours of this; I wish I had never been born!"
He had not, however, finished his first cigar before a horse's head and shoulders pushed through the mist. Mike sprang to his feet.
"Can you tell me the way off these infernal downs?" he cried. "Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Edith."
"Oh, is that you, Mr. Fletcher? I have lost my way and my groom too. I am awfully frightened; I missed him of a sudden in the fog. What shall I do? Can you tell me the way?"
"Indeed I cannot; if I knew the way I should not be sitting under this furze-bush."
"What shall we do? I must get home."
"It is very terrible, Lady Edith, but I'm afraid you will not be able to get home till the fog lifts."
"But I must get home. I must! I must! What will they think? They'll be sending out to look for me. Won't you come with me, Mr. Fletcher, and help me to find the way?"
"I will, of course, do anything you like; but I warn you, Lady Edith, that riding about these downs in a fog is most dangerous; I as nearly as possible went over a chalk-pit fifty feet deep."