The sturdy little Breton horse which Morice bestrode, snorted, shaking its head as it faced the purple moor before it.
Purple heather, purple heather! Surely those grim dwellers of a grim land should thank thee for thy touch of softening splendour and beauty amidst grey barrenness,—the carpet of a king amongst briers and rock, thistle and waste.
On came the storm, sweeping inland with a fury which gathered force with every moment.
The mist-clouds had disappeared, rent and twisted by the gale which struck the travellers with sharp buffetings.
Not a hut nor a cottage near for shelter, nothing to protect them against the rising blast.
A flash of lightning, a deafening crash of thunder, and down came the rain, tempest-driven and stinging, like the lash of a thousand fairy whips.
The man, Pierre Dusac, was talking.
It was unfortunate, but the noble Marquis de Varenac understood not a single word. It was evident, however, that the guide was anxious to end the journey as speedily as possible, and, finding it no easy task to run in face of a hurricane, was demanding to ride on Morice's steed.
It is no use quarrelling with one's bread-and-butter.
If the worthy Pierre forsook him the forlorn Englishman would find himself in an evil plight. Yet he acquiesced with sorry grace, surprised, however, to find that the sturdy beast made nothing of the double weight, but went steadily on, encouraged by the familiar cries of her new rider.