Duncan became fully alive to his danger now, however, especially when the tiny millet-seed snow began to fall.
"Our nearest way is through the wood," said the boy. Duncan was always pioneer in every danger and in every pleasure.
"And there is no time to lose," he added. "Florie, I wish you hadn't come. I suppose Conal and I will have to carry you."
"I won't be carried," replied the stout-hearted little Scots maiden. "I daresay you think I'm a child."
Fishing-tackle was by this time made up, and off they started.
It was terribly dark and gloomy under the great black-foliaged pine-trees, but Duncan knew every foot of the way.
They got through the forest, and out on to the wide moorland, just as the snow began to fall in earnest.
This moor was for the most part covered with heather, with broom and with whins, but dotted over with Scottish pine-trees. These last had been planted, or rather sown, by the rooks, for the black corbies turn many a heathery upland in Scotland into waving woods or forests. They bear the cones away to pick the seeds therefrom on the quiet moors. Some of these seeds are dropped, and in a short time trees spring up.
Duncan now took from his pocket a small compass, and studied it for a moment.
"We sha'n't be able to see the length of a fishing-rod before us soon," he said. "Now, I propose steering due south till we strike the old turf dike[1] that leads across the mountains. By following this downwards we will be guided straight to the pine-wood rookery behind our house."