The cold rain chilled him to the bone, and after awhile he determined to try and make his way forward on foot, in hopes of finding, if not a human habitation, some walls or bushes where he could obtain shelter until the weather cleared.  He fastened the reins to a small shrub, took off the saddle and laid it on the grass, spread the horse rug over the animal to protect it as far as possible, and then started on his way.  He had heard of Irish bogs extending for many miles, and deep enough to engulf men and animals who might stray among them, and he felt that his position was a serious one.

He blamed himself now for not having halted immediately he perceived that he had missed the road.  The only guide that he had as to the direction he should take was the wind.  On his way it had been in his face, and he determined now to keep it at his back, not because that was probably the way to safety, but because he could see more easily where he was going, and he thought by continuing steadily in one direction he might at last gain firm ground.  His view extended but a few yards round him, and he soon found that his plan of proceeding in a straight line was impracticable.  Often quagmires of black ooze, or spaces covered with light grass, which were, he found, still more treacherous, barred his way, and he was compelled to make considerable detours to the right or left in order to pass them.  Sometimes widths of sluggish water were met with.  For a long time Harry continued his way, leaping lightly from tuft to tuft, where the grass grew thickest, sometimes wading knee-deep in the slush and feeling carefully every foot lest he should get to a depth whence he should be unable to extricate himself.  Every now and then he shouted at the top of his voice, in hopes that he might be heard by some human being.  For hours he struggled on.  He was now exhausted with his efforts, and the thickening darkness told him that day was fading.  From the time he had left his horse he had met with no bush of sufficient height to afford him the slightest shelter.

Just as he was thinking whether he had not better stop where he was, and sit down on the firmest tuft he could find and wait for morning, when perhaps the rainstorm might cease and enable him to see where he was, he heard, and at no very great distance, the sudden bray of a donkey.  He turned at once in the direction of the sound, with renewed hopes, giving a loud shout as he did so.  Again and again he raised his voice, and presently heard an answering shout.  He called again, and in reply heard some shouts in Irish, probably questions, but to these he could give no answer.  Shouting occasionally, he made his way toward the voice, but the bog seemed more difficult and treacherous than ever, and at last he reached a spot where further advance seemed absolutely impossible.  It was now nearly dark, and Harry was about to sit down in despair, when suddenly a voice sounded close to him.  He answered again, and immediately a barefooted boy