The wayfarer must get out as he best can from the confusion of these ruins.  It is like journeying over the bones of an enormous skeleton.

Put a child to this labour of Hercules.

Broad daylight might have aided him.  It was night.  A guide was necessary.  He was alone.  All the vigour of manhood would not have been too much.  He had but the feeble strength of a child.  In default of a guide, a footpath might have aided him; there was none.

By instinct he avoided the sharp ridge of the rocks, and kept to the strand as much as possible.  It was there that he met with the pitfalls.  They were multiplied before him under three forms:  the pitfall of water, the pitfall of snow, and the pitfall of sand.  This last is the most dangerous of all, because the most illusory.  To know the peril we face is alarming; to be ignorant of it is terrible.  The child was fighting against unknown dangers.  He was groping his way through something which might, perhaps, be the grave.

He did not hesitate.  He went round the rocks, avoided the crevices, guessed at the pitfalls, obeyed the twistings and turnings caused by such obstacles, yet he went on.  Though unable to advance in a straight line, he walked with a firm step.  When necessary, he drew back with energy.  He knew how to tear himself in time from the horrid bird-lime of the quicksands.  He shook the snow from about him.  He entered the water more than once up to the knees.  Directly that he left it, his wet knees were frozen by the intense cold of the night.  He walked rapidly in his stiffened garments; yet he took care to keep his sailor’s coat dry and warm on his chest.  He was still tormented by hunger.

The chances of the abyss are illimitable.  Everything is possible in it, even salvation.  The issue may be found, though it be invisible.  How the child, wrapped in a smothering winding-sheet of snow, lost on a narrow elevation between two jaws of an abyss, managed to cross the isthmus is what he could not himself have explained.  He had slipped, climbed, rolled, searched, walked, persevered, that is all.  Such is the secret of all triumphs.  At the end of somewhat less than half an hour he felt that the ground was rising.  He had reached the other shore.  Leaving Chesil, he had gained terra firma.

The bridge which now unites Sandford Castle with Smallmouth Sands did not then exist.  It is probable that in his intelligent groping he had reascended as far as Wyke Regis, where there was then a tongue of sand, a natural road crossing East Fleet.

He was saved from the isthmus; but he found himself again face to face with the tempest, with the cold, with the night.

Before him once more lay the plain, shapeless in the density of impenetrable shadow.  He examined the ground, seeking a footpath.  Suddenly he bent down.  He had discovered, in the snow, something which seemed to him a track.

It was indeed a track—­the print of a foot.  The print was cut out clearly in the whiteness of the snow, which rendered it distinctly visible.  He examined it.  It was a naked foot; too small for that of a man, too large for that of a child.