went the path, to right or to left? He tried to throw his memory back and recapture the shape of it. There had been a sharp curve somewhere as it bent out towards the sea, but he did not know how far now he had gone. He strained with his eyes but could see nothing but the wall of grey. Should he wait there until the fog cleared or Dunbar came to him: but the fog might be there for hours, and Dunbar might never come. No, he must not wait. The thought of Hesther alone in the fog, fearing every moment recapture by the Crispins, filled with every terror that her loneliness could breed in her, spurred him on. He must reach her, whatever the risk.
Stretching his arm at full length he touched the path again, but there was an interval. Had there been any break in the path when he came down it? He could not remember any. He felt backwards with his hand and found the curve, crept forward, then his foot slipt and his leg slid over the edge. He waited to stop the hammering of his heart, then, balancing himself, pulled it back then forward again.
Lucky for him that there was no wind, but again not lucky because had there been wind the fog might have been blown out of its course: as it was, with every instant it seemed to grow thicker and thicker.
Then he grew calmer. He must soon now be reaching the top, and happiness came to him when
