Foreseeing that the siege of Dublin was not likely to be successful, Harry accepted his commission to the West with pleasure.  He felt already that with all his devotion to the Royalist cause he could not wish that the siege of Dublin should be successful; for he saw that the vast proportion of the besieging army were animated by no sense of loyalty, by no interest in the constitutional question at stake, but simply with a blind hatred of the Protestant population of Dublin, and that the capture of the city would probably be followed by the indiscriminate slaughter of its inhabitants.

He set out on his journey, furnished with letters from Ormonde to several influential gentlemen in Galway.  The roads at first were fairly good, but accustomed to the comfortable inns in England, Harry found the resting-places along the road execrable.  He was amused of an evening by the eagerness with which the people came round and asked for news from Dublin.  In all parts of England the little sheets which then did service as newspapers carried news of the events which were taking place.  It is true that none of the country population could read or write; but the alehouses served as centers of news.  The village clerk, or, perhaps, the squire’s bailiff, could read, as could probably the landlord, and thus the news spread quickly round the country.  In Ireland news traveled only from mouth to mouth, often becoming strangely distorted on the way.

Harry was greatly struck by the bareness of the fields and the poverty of the country; and as he journeyed further west the country became still wilder and more lonely.  It was seldom now that he met any one who could speak English, and as the road was often little more than a track, he had great difficulty in keeping his way, and regretted that he had not hired a servant knowing the country before leaving the army.  He generally, however, was able to obtain a guide from village to village.  The loneliness of the way, the wretchedness of the people, the absence of the brightness and comfort so characteristic of English life, made the journey an oppressive one, and Harry was glad when, five days after leaving Dublin, he approached the end of his ride.  Upon this day he had taken no guide, being told that the road was clear and unmistakable as far as Galway.

He had not traveled many hours when a heavy mist set in, accompanied by a keen and driving rain, in his face.  With his head bent down, Harry rode along, paying less attention than usual to his way.  The mist grew thicker and thicker.  The horse no longer proceeded at a brisk pace, and presently came to a stop.  Harry dismounted, and discovered that he had left the road, Turning his horse’s head, and taking the reins over his arm, he tried to retrace his steps.

For an hour he walked along, the conviction growing every moment that he was hopelessly lost.  The ground was now soft and miry and was covered with tussocks of coarse grass, between which the soil was black and oozy.  The horse floundered on for some distance, but with such increasing difficulty that, upon reaching a space of comparatively solid ground, Harry decided to take him no further.