The way grew every moment
more dingy. The heavy clouds above the thick foliage brought night on
prematurely. It was decidedly premature to a near-sighted man, whose
glasses the rain rendered useless: such a person ought to be at home
early. On leaving the river bank I had borne to the left, so as to be
sure to strike either the clearing or the road, and not wander off into
the measureless forest. I confidently pursued this course, and went
gayly on by the left flank. That I did not come to any opening or path
only showed that I had slightly mistaken the distance: I was going in
the right direction.

I was so certain of this that I quickened my pace and got up with
alacrity every time I tumbled down amid the slippery leaves and catching
roots, and hurried on. And I kept to the left. It even occurred to me
that I was turning to the left so much that I might come back to the
river again. It grew more dusky, and rained more violently; but there
was nothing alarming in the situation, since I knew exactly where I was.
It was a little mortifying that I had miscalculated the distance: yet,
so far was I from feeling any uneasiness about this that I quickened my
pace again, and, before I knew it, was in a full run; that is, as full
a run as a person can indulge in in the dusk, with so many trees in
the way. No nervousness, but simply a reasonable desire to get there. I
desired to look upon myself as the person "not lost, but gone before."
As time passed, and darkness fell, and no clearing or road appeared, I
ran a little faster. It didn't seem possible that the people had moved,
or the road been changed; and yet I was sure of my direction. I went
on with an energy increased by the ridiculousness of the situation,
the danger that an experienced woodsman was in of getting home late
for supper; the lateness of the meal being nothing to the gibes of the
unlost. How long I kept this course, and how far I went on, I do not
know; but suddenly I stumbled against an ill-placed tree, and sat down
on the soaked ground, a trifle out of breath. It then occurred to me
that I had better verify my course by the compass. There was scarcely
light enough to distinguish the black end of the needle. To my
amazement, the compass, which was made near Greenwich, was wrong.
Allowing for the natural variation of the needle, it was absurdly wrong.
It made out that I was going south when I was going north. It intimated
that, instead of turning to the left,