"Drop the bridle, and leave it to the pownies.
See for yourselves.
I'm away on my powny." He drops his bridle on the pommel of his saddle, whistles to his pony, and disappears in the mist; riding with his hands in his pockets, and his pipe in his mouth, as composedly as if he were sitting by his own fireside at home.
We have no choice but to follow his example, or to be left alone on the moor.
The intelligent little animals, relieved from our stupid supervision, trot off with their noses to the ground, like hounds on the scent.
Where the intersecting tract of bog is wide, they skirt round it.
Where it is narrow enough to be leaped over, they cross it by a jump.
Trot! trot!—away the hardy little creatures go; never stopping, never hesitating.
Our "superior intelligence," perfectly useless in the emergency, wonders how it will end.
Our guide, in front of us, answers that it will end in the ponies finding their way certainly to the nearest village or the nearest house.
"Let the bridles be," is his one warning to us.
"Come what may of it, let the bridles be!"
It is easy for the guide to let his bridle be—he is accustomed to place himself in that helpless position under stress of circumstances, and he knows exactly what his pony can do.
To us, however, the situation is a new one; and it looks dangerous in the extreme.
More than once I check myself, not without an effort, in the act of resuming the command of my pony on passing the more dangerous points in the journey.
The time goes on; and no sign of an inhabited dwelling looms through the mist.
I begin to get fidgety and irritable; I find myself secretly doubting the trustworthiness of the guide.
While I am in this unsettled frame of mind, my pony approaches a dim, black, winding line, where the bog must be crossed for the hundredth time at least.
The breadth of it (deceptively enlarged in appearance by the mist) looks to my eyes beyond the reach of a leap by any pony that ever was foaled.
I lose my presence of mind.
At the critical moment before the jump is taken, I am foolish enough to seize the bridle, and suddenly check the pony.
He starts, throws up his head, and falls instantly as if he had been shot.
My right hand, as we drop on the ground together, gets twisted under me, and I feel that I have sprained my wrist.
If I escape with no worse injury than this, I may consider myself well off.
But no such good fortune is reserved for me.
In his struggles to rise, before I have completely extricated myself from him, the pony kicks me; and, as my ill-luck will have it, his hoof strikes just where the poisoned spear struck me in the past days of my service in India.
The old wound opens again—and there I lie bleeding on the barren Shetland moor!
This time my strength has not been exhausted in attempting to breast the current of a swift-flowing river with a drowning woman to support.
I preserve my senses; and I am able to give the necessary directions for bandaging the wound with the best materials which we have at our disposal.
To mount my pony again is simply out of the question.
I must remain where I am, with my traveling companion to look after me; and the guide must trust his pony to discover the nearest place of shelter to which I can be removed.
Before he abandons us on the moor, the man (at my suggestion) takes our "bearings," as correctly as he can by the help of my pocket-compass.
This done, he disappears in the mist, with the bridle hanging loose, and the pony's nose to the ground, as before.
I am left, under my young friend's care, with a cloak to lie on, and a saddle for a pillow.
Our ponies composedly help themselves to such grass as they can find on the moor; keeping always near us as companionably as if they were a couple of dogs.
In this position we wait events, while the dripping mist hangs thicker than ever all round us.
The slow minutes follow each other wearily in the majestic silence of the moor.
We neither of us acknowledge it in words, but we both feel that hours may pass before the guide discovers us again.
The penetrating damp slowly strengthens its clammy hold on me.
My companion's pocket-flask of sherry has about a teaspoonful of wine left in the bottom of it.
We look at one another—having nothing else to look at in the present state of the weather—and we try to make the best of it.
So the slow minutes follow each other, until our watches tell us that forty minutes have elapsed since the guide and his pony vanished from our view.
My friend suggests that we may as well try what our voices can do toward proclaiming our situation to any living creature who may, by the barest possibility, be within hearing of us.
I leave him to try the experiment, having no strength to spare for vocal efforts of any sort.
My companion shouts at the highest pitch of his voice.
Silence follows his first attempt.
He tries again; and, this time, an answering hail reaches us faintly through the white fog.
A fellow-creature of some sort, guide or stranger, is near us—help is coming at last!
An interval passes; and voices reach our ears—the voices of two men.
Then the shadowy appearance of the two becomes visible in the mist.