He knew of but one way homewards, and that was guarded by the bull;
moreover, if he attempted to find another road he was hampered by the
loss of his spectacles, without which he could not see a yard before
his nose.
However, anything was better than facing the bull again; so he arose,
picked the brambles out of his clothing, and started cautiously
across the field.
As luck would have it he found a gate; but another field followed,
and a third, into which he had to climb by the hedge. And here he
suffered from a tendency known to all mountaineers who have lost
their way in a mist; unconsciously he began to trend away towards the
left, and as this led him further and further from home, his plight
became every moment more desperate.
At last he struck into a narrow lane, just as the sun sank.
He halted for a moment to consider his direction.
"Pat--pat--pat."
He looked up. A little girl in an immense sun-bonnet was toddling up
the lane towards him. She swung a satchel in her left hand, and at
sight of the stranger paused with her unoccupied forefinger in mouth.
Mr. Fogo advanced straight up to her, stooped with his hands on his
knees, and peered into her face. This behaviour, though necessitated
by his shortness of sight, worked the most paralysing effect on the
child.
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