We were in fine spirits by the time we reached “Hastings' Woods,” a noble forest, watered by a clear, sparkling stream.
Grateful as was the refreshment of the green foliage and the cooling waters, we did not allow ourselves to forget that the day was wearing on, and that we must, if possible, complete our journey before sunset, so we soon braced up our minds to continue our route, although we would gladly have lingered another hour.
The marsh of Duck Creek was, thanks to the heat of the past week, in a very different state from what it had been a few months previous, when I had been so unfortunately submerged in its icy waters.
We passed it without difficulty, and soon found ourselves upon the banks of the creek.
The stream, at this point, was supposed to be always fordable; and even were it not so, that to the majority of our party would have been a matter of little moment. To the ladies, however, the subject seemed to demand consideration.
“This water looks very deep—are you sure we can cross it on horseback?”
“Oh, yes! Petaille, go before and let us see how the water is.”
Petaille obeyed. He was mounted on a horse like a giraffe, and, extending his feet horizontally, he certainly managed to pass through the stream without much of a wetting.
It seemed certain that the water would come into the wagon, but that was of the less consequence, as in case of the worst, the passengers could mount upon the seats.