Oh, for Almack's! Oh, for Arthur's, or White's! Oh, for the comfort of warm fire and pleasant punch-bowl!
Again and again the champion of Revolutionary enthusiasm cursed himself for a fool, and vowed that he would return to England with all speed, heedless of renown.
Wet to the skin, cold and wretched in every sense of the word, he rode on, whilst overhead the storm raged in full force.
Crash after crash of thunder deafened him as it broke, rolling away like the roar of a mighty battle towards the distant forests. Flash after flash showed the same desolate scene which evening light had displayed—nothing but that dreary stretch of barren lande, with its scattered rocks and clumps of gorse here and there amongst the heather, whilst the dark fringe of forest-trees bound the landscape to westwards.
"Òla! Òla!" screamed the guide in his ear. "Kérnak, Kérnak."
Morice growled out an oath. Wet, cold, and anxious as to his probable fate, his usually easy temper was sour and crabbed.
"Kérnak, Kérnak!" cried the man again, pointing to a slope to their right, on the top of which stood outlined a dark mass.
Kérnak? A habitation of sorts, at any rate, as the next blue flash told Morice.
A château of considerable size, with a fringe of forest-trees clustered round the foot of the hill, like rows of guarding sentinels. Through the blinding mist of rain the travellers could see lights burning. Refuge at last!
Morice did not even stop to inquire as to whether Varenac were far or near. Escape from the battle of striving elements was all he asked.