I had looked for it often when in
open boats. It was away off on our left, the road seemed to be
ascending and rocky: I had never seen this piece of road before,
that I was sure of.
"We are going to the eastward," said I, "and we should be going
northwest."
"My dear, lie down and go to sleep; the man knows the road; he is
taking a short cut, I suppose," said the Lieutenant. There was
something not at all reassuring in his tones, however.
The driver did not turn his head nor speak. I looked at the North
Star, which was getting farther and farther on our left, and I
felt the gloomy conviction that we were lost on the desert.
Finally, at daylight, after going higher and higher, we drew up
in an old deserted mining-camp.
The driver jerked his ponies up, and, with a sullen gesture,
said, "We must have missed the fork of the road; this is Picket
Post."
"Great Heavens!" I cried; "how far out of the way are we?"
"About fifteen miles," he drawled, "you see we shall have to go
back to the place where the road forks, and make a new start."
I nearly collapsed with discouragement. I looked around at the
ruined walls and crumbling pillars of stone, so weird and so grey
in the dawning light: it might have been a worshipping place of
the Druids.
