When we had done supper it was quite dark.  The silence and freshness of the night, the occasional sharp cry of the wood-hen, the ruddy glow of the fire, the subdued rushing of the river, the sombre forest, and the immediate foreground of our saddles packs and blankets, made a picture worthy of a Salvator Rosa or a Nicolas Poussin.  I call it to mind and delight in it now, but I did not notice it at the time.  We next to never know when we are well off:  but this cuts two ways,—­for if we did, we should perhaps know better when we are ill off also; and I have sometimes thought that there are as many ignorant of the one as of the other.  He who wrote, “O fortunatos nimium sua si bona norint agricolas,” might have written quite as truly, “O infortunatos nimium sua si mala norint”; and there are few of us who are not protected from the keenest pain by our inability to see what it is that we have done, what we are suffering, and what we truly are.  Let us be grateful to the mirror for revealing to us our appearance only.

We found as soft a piece of ground as we could—­though it was all stony—­and having collected grass and so disposed of ourselves that we had a little hollow for our hip-bones, we strapped our blankets around us and went to sleep.  Waking in the night I saw the stars overhead and the moonlight bright upon the mountains.  The river was ever rushing; I heard one of our horses neigh to its companion, and was assured that they were still at hand; I had no care of mind or body, save that I had doubtless many difficulties to overcome; there came upon me a delicious sense of peace, a fulness of contentment which I do not believe can be felt by any but those who have spent days consecutively on horseback, or at any rate in the open air.

Next morning we found our last night’s tea-leaves frozen at the bottom of the pannikins, though it was not nearly the beginning of autumn; we breakfasted as we had supped, and were on our way by six o’clock.  In half an hour we had entered the gorge, and turning round a corner we bade farewell to the last sight of my master’s country.

The gorge was narrow and precipitous; the river was now only a few yards wide, and roared and thundered against rocks of many tons in weight; the sound was deafening, for there was a great volume of water.  We were two hours in making less than a mile, and that with danger, sometimes in the river and sometimes on the rock.  There was that damp black smell of rocks covered with slimy vegetation, as near some huge waterfall where spray is ever rising.  The air was clammy and cold.  I cannot conceive how our horses managed to keep their footing, especially the one with the pack, and I dreaded the having to return almost as much as going forward.  I suppose this lasted three miles, but it was well midday when the gorge got a little wider, and a small stream came into it from a tributary valley.  Farther progress up the main river was impossible, for the cliffs descended