"I do not mind in the least--for your sake. It is getting late, and we must hasten." He was now seriously anxious, for her sake, to seek a road, and pushed on as hard as he could. The mare, however, walked up the next rise; at the summit, Margaret pointed to the east. "The clouds are coming up," she said. Low down was a dark bank--a thicker night--rising swiftly, blotting out the stars one by one. Another burst forwards, and another walk, as Geoffrey began to feel the exertion. The "messengers"--small detached clouds, that precede the rest--were already passing overhead. The white glow on the northern horizon, indicating the position of the summer sun just beneath, was covered. On three sides the edges of the cloud rose up and began to meet above. "I trust it will not rain," thought Geoffrey. "It is getting still warmer," said Margaret presently; "the Great Bear is hidden now." Under the mass of vapour the temperature, warm before, became sultry and oppressive. "Stand up!" said Geoffrey sharply to the mare, as they descended a steeper slope, and she stumbled. Then to Margaret, "The mist is gone." It had insensibly disappeared as the clouds came over; they had now covered the sky, and it was dark. "Will it thunder?" she asked anxiously. "It is very hot, and I believe I felt a drop of rain--and another." "Only heat-drops," said Geoffrey, but his mind misgave him. The clouds swept over at a rapid pace, yet there was no breeze; they were carried on an aerial current far above the earth. The pole star was hidden; still Geoffrey kept on walking as fast as he could, trying to keep a straight line. He spoke to and cheered the mare frequently; she stumbled, and seemed nervous. There was an intense electrical tension in the atmosphere. "Oh, where are we now?" said Margaret, as Kitty's knees rustled against something, and she stopped and dragged at the bridle. "What is this?" In the gloom a white shimmering surface stretched out. "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."