Pasco drove rapidly down the hillside into the Dart Valley at New Bridge. The road was mostly in shadow, but the bare moor on the farther side was white in the moonlight, as though it had been snowed over. The horse was tired, and tripped. Pasco had to be on his guard lest the beast should fall. In the shadow of the trees it could not see the stones that strewed the way. At the bottom of the valley flowed the Dart; the rush of the water breaking over the rocks was audible. “If a harm came to you or me in the river, I reckon the body would be washed right away to Sharpitor,” said Pepperill. “Uncle!” said Kate, with a laugh, “that would be going up hill.” “I’m getting mazed,” growled he; “so it is. Well, folk would say one or other of us had come by an accident among the rocks o’ Sharpitor, and tumbled into the river and been carried down by the stream. That’s likely—eh?” “I suppose so, uncle. But if anything were to happen to one, that the other would know, and do all he could to help.” “Of course.” Pepperill was looking at the brawling torrent. “And if anything were to chance to one here, the body would be carried right down the Chase for miles till it came to the other bridge.” “I daresay, uncle. But don’t talk like that. Let us look at the moonlight. There is a man yonder—by the side of the river.” “A man—where?” “By that large stone.” “He is catching salmon. Not a fish has a chance up here on the moor. What a parcel of rascals there be!” Pepperill drove across the bridge. He had intended—he hardly dared articulately to express to himself his intention. Again he was frustrated—just at a suitable point—by this fellow catching salmon by night. Beyond the bridge the road rose rapidly. Both uncle and niece were forced to descend from the cart, and relieve the horse. Some six hundred feet had to be mounted without any zigzags in the road. Kate walked along cheerily. Pasco lagged behind. The horse, with nose down, laboriously stepped up the steep incline. Pasco took out his knife and cut a branch of thorn from the hedge, and in doing so tore his fingers. He put the thorn behind the seat. When the summit of the hill was almost reached, he said to Kate, “I shall turn to the left, and leave the road.” “What—out on the moor?” “Yes; I think we can cut off a great curve and avoid the cottages. You walk by the horse’s head; I will mount and hold the reins. There are large stones in the way.” This was the case. Kate thought that her uncle was rash in taking the track across the moor at night, a way he could not know, merely to save a mile that the road made in detour. But she said nothing. She was pleased to go by a way that commanded the gorge of the Dart, and had no fear, as the moon shone brilliantly, and every bush and stone was visible as in the day. The mica and spar in the granite made each rock sparkle as though encrusted with diamonds. A heavy dew had fallen, cobwebs hanging on the furze were as silvery fairy tissue.