“A wheat field,” said Geoffrey; “we must go round it.” Kitty resisted, wanting to nibble at the succulent stalks, not yet dried into straw by the sun.
“If it is wheat we are certainly wrong,” said Margaret. “We ought not to get on the plain among the ploughed fields; our proper road is on the turf somewhere. Pluck me a wheat-ear, please; the stalk is sweet, and I am thirsty.”
He did so. Crushed by the teeth, the stalk yielded a pleasant sweetness to the parched mouth. “It is the wine of the corn,” she said. He wanted to lead the mare round the field; but beyond was another of barley, and Margaret was so certain that it was the wrong direction that he gave it up, and felt his way back to the hill as he thought. Proceeding along the ridge, a clump of trees loomed large close at hand.
“Moonlight Firs!” cried Margaret joyfully, urging the mare. “Please go and see what trees they are,” she said. “It is difficult to distinguish.”
He ran forward, and in two minutes returned, silent. “Yes?” she said impatiently.
“Beeches,” he replied; “the same beeches.”
“We have toiled round in a circle. What shall we do?—now we are lost indeed!” Her voice went straight to his heart, and roused him to fresh exertions.
“It is strange that we see no lights,” he said; “there must be farmhouses or cottages somewhere.”
“They all go to bed by daylight in summer—to save candles. Do let us go on—somewhere.” He easily understood her nervous desire to move. The darkness seemed to increase; but he led the mare slowly. Every now and then a lark rose from the turf—they could not see, but heard the wings—and fluttered away into the gloom.
“Hush!” whispered Margaret suddenly. “What was that? I thought I heard footsteps.”