Lost on the Moor

George Elgood's haste to reach the end of the moor gave wings to his
feet, so that Margot had much ado to keep pace. Contrary to
expectation, the fog did not lessen as they advanced, but closed in upon
them thicker and thicker, so that the ground beneath their feet became
invisible, and progress was broken by sundry trips and stumbles over
projecting mounds of heather. The air seemed to reek with moisture, and
a deadly feeling of oppression, almost of suffocation, affected the
lungs, as the curling wreath of mist closed overhead.

Half an hour earlier Margot had felt that any sort of adventure (if
experienced in George Elgood's company) must of necessity be enjoyable,
but during that swift silent retreat she was conscious of a dawning of
something perilously like fear. Her breath came in quickened pants, she
kept her eyes fixed in a straining eagerness on the tall figure looming
darkly ahead. If she once lost sight of him, what would become of her?
It made her shudder to think of being left alone upon that shrouded
moor!

Every now and then as he walked, the Editor gave voice to a loud "coo-
ee," in hope that the echoes might reach the ears of his brother and
Ronald, who should by now be approaching in the same direction; but no
reply floated back to his anxious ears.

"Perhaps they have gone round by the road," he suggested tentatively.
"If they were some time in following, they may have seen the fog, and
come to the conclusion that discretion was the better part of valour."