They rode one hour and a second without being able to pass the swamp. Meanwhile it was growing lighter, for the moon had risen. Suddenly Soroka, who was in advance, sprang from the saddle and began to look carefully at the ground.
“Horses have passed this way,” said he, at sight of tracks in the soft earth.
“Who could have passed, when there is no road?” asked one of the soldiers supporting Pan Kmita.
“But there are tracks, and a whole crowd of them! Look here between the pines,—as evident as on the palm of the hand!”
“Perhaps cattle have passed.”
“Impossible. It is not the time of forest pastures; horse-hoofs are clearly to be seen, somebody must have passed. It would be well to find even a forester’s cabin.”
“Let us follow the trail.”
“Let us ride forward!”
Soroka mounted again and rode on. Horses’ tracks in the turfy ground were more distinct; and some of them, as far as could be seen in the light of the moon, seemed quite fresh. Still the horses sank to their knees, and beyond. The soldiers were afraid that they could not wade through, or would come to some deeper quagmire; when, at the end of half an hour, the odor of smoke and rosin came to their nostrils.
“There must be a pitch-clearing here,” said Soroka.