“It’s uncomfortable,” he remarked.
No one replied to so ridiculously obvious a truth, but each man slowly rose and stumbled towards higher ground. To add to their discomfort the night was intensely dark; even if wide awake they could not have seen a yard in front of them.
“Have you found a tree?” asked Victor.
“Oui—yes—to be sure,” said Rollin angrily. “Anyhow von branch of a tree have found me, an’ a’most split my head.”
“Where is it?—speak, Ian; I can see nothing. Is it—ah! I’ve found it too.”
“Vid yoos head?” inquired Rollin, chuckling.
Victor condescended not to reply, but lay down under the partial shelter of the tree, rolled himself up in his wet blanket, and went to sleep. His companions followed suit. Yes, reader, we can vouch for the truth of this, having more than once slept damp and soundly in a wet blanket. But they did not like it, and their spirits were down about zero when they mounted at grey dawn and resumed the chase in a dull, dreadful drizzle.
After a time the aspect of the scenery changed. The rolling plain became more irregular and broken than heretofore, and was more studded with patches of woodland, which here and there almost assumed the dignity of forests.
One evening the clouds broke; glimpses of the heavenly blue appeared to gladden our travellers, and ere long the sun beamed forth in all its wonted splendour. Riding out into a wide stretch of open country, they bounded away with that exuberance of feeling which is frequently the result of sunshine after rain.
“It is like heaven upon earth,” cried Victor, pulling up after a long run.