But her firm pose and face steadily to the fore invited with no sign; and
after covertly stealing a glance or two at her clear unresponsive profile
I still could manage no theme that would loosen my tongue. Thereby let
her think me a dolt. Thank Heaven, after another twenty-four hours at most
it might not matter what she thought.

The drooning round of my own thoughts revolved over and over, and the
scuffing gait of the mules upon way interminable began to numb me.
Lassitude seemed to be enfolding us both; I observed that she rode laxly,
with hand upon the horn and a weary yielding to motion. Words might have
stirred us, but no words came. Presently I caught myself dozing in the
saddle, aroused only by the twitching of my wounded arm. Then again I
dozed, and kept dozing, fairly dead for sleep, until speak she did, her
voice drifting as from afar but fetching me awake and blinking.

"Hadn't we better stop?" she repeated.

That was a curious sensation. When I stared about, uncomprehending, my
view was shut off by a whiteness veiling the moon above and the earth
below except immediately underneath my mule's hoofs. She herself was a
specter; the weeds that we brushed were spectral; every sound that we made
was muffled, and in the intangible, opaquely lucent shroud which had
enveloped us like the spirit of a sea there was no life nor movement.

"What's the matter?" I propounded.

"The fog. I don't know where we are."

"Oh! I hadn't noticed."

"No," she said calmly. "You've been asleep."

"Haven't you?"

"Not lately. But I don't think there's any use in riding on. We've lost
our bearings."

She was ahead; evidently had taken the lead while I slept. That
realization straightened me, shamed, in my saddle. The fog, fleecy, not so
wet as impenetrable--when had it engulfed us?

"How long have we been in it?" I asked, thoroughly vexed.

"An hour, maybe. We rode right into it. I thought we might leave it, but
we don't. It's as thick as ever. We ought to stop."

"I suppose we ought," said I.

And at the moment we entered into a sudden clearing amidst the fog
enclosure: a tract of a quarter of an acre, like a hollow center, with the
white walls held apart and the stars and moon faintly glimmering down
through the mist roof overhead.

She drew rein and half turned in the saddle. I could see her face. It was
dank and wan and heavy-eyed; her hair, somewhat robbed of its sheen,
crowned with a pallid golden aureole.