We walked on rapidly, covering, by Sam Barnby's directions, as much ground as possible, while, however, keeping each other in sight, which could be more easily done at that time of the year than in the summer. Every now and then we came on a herd of forest ponies, which went scampering away, shaking the hoar frost from the bushes as their shaggy coats brushed them in passing. Less frequently we encountered herds of the fallow deer, once so numerous. They would stand for an instant gazing at us, as if wondering why we had invaded their domains, and then, fleet as the wind, they would fly, following one after the other, till they reached some knoll or thicker wood, where they would stop and scrutinise us as we passed. We were all soon in a thorough glow from the exercise we were taking, for the ground was far from level. Now we had to ascend a height, now descend into a valley, circuit a marsh, or leap across a stream--a feat not always easily accomplished. We passed many spots of historic fame which I cannot here stop to describe. Many were highly picturesque and beautiful, and had attracted, I doubt not, the pencil of Gilpin, who was minister of Boldre, not far off. On we went, hour after hour, unflaggingly, till Sam called a halt, and each of us produced the provender we had brought. Sam had strapped a large fishing-basket to his back, and to our infinite satisfaction, when we found that our own supplies were totally inadequate to satisfy the cravings of our keen appetites, he brought forth an abundance of eatables and a bottle or two of the stoutest of stout ales, that, as he remarked, a little might go a long way. There must have been real stuff in it, for, though he gave us each but a few thimblefuls, it set us up amazingly, and away we went as full of spirit and strength as when we first started. I cannot describe all the adventures we met with. Jack was on the right of the line, I was next to him. Suddenly I heard him cry out. I ran up to him, calling to the others to halt. Jack pointed to an object under a bush. It was the body of a man. "Is he asleep?" I asked. "He is very quiet," said Jack. Indeed he was quiet. All our shouting did not arouse him. He was dressed in a smock frock and long brown gaiters; but his hands were white, and his face fair. "He is dead, young gentlemen!" said Sam Barnby, gravely, when he came up. "Who can he be?" We all stood aloof. None of us had ever seen a dead mail. It was a sad object. Sam, stooping down, examined the body. "To my mind, this is no other than the unfortunate gentleman we are looking for. He is no carter, and under his smock his dress is that of a gentleman."