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Midway across the slope was a bare spot burning like white fire in the desert sun. It was the water-hole. The trail became paralleled by other trails, narrow and rutted by countless hoofs. Within a hundred yards of the water-hole the prisoner collapsed. Lorry dismounted and went for water. The man drank, and Lorry helped him up and across the sand to the rim of the water-hole.
'But one does not free one's self from habits and ideas, that have grown almost inveterate, without much pain and struggle; one falls back many times, and there are always good reasons for following the rut. We believe that the rutted way leads us somewhere: it leads us nowhere, the rutted way is only a seeming; for each man received his truth in the womb.
He untied a packet and George studied the picture handed him. It showed the rutted main street of a little western town, with the sunlight on a row of wooden buildings. In the distance a band of cattle were being driven forward by two mounted men; nearer at hand a few wagons stood outside a livery stable; and in the foreground three or four figures occupied the veranda of a frame hotel.
We had to quarter, as Randal called it, nearly all the way along the deep- rutted, miry lanes; and the tremendous jolts I occasionally met with made my seat in the gig so unsteady that I could not look about me at all, I was so much occupied in holding on. The road was too muddy for me to walk without dirtying myself more than I liked to do, just before my first sight of my Lady Ludlow.
Snorting a little, the horses splashed through the clear, brown water and entered upon the rough, rutted road, grass grown in places, which, ending beneath a broken avenue of ancient, stag-headed oaks, leads to the entrance of the Brockhurst woods.
"We'll hev to go more careful here," said Rebecca as they turned into the lane leading down to the swamp. With many a stumble and some scratches they moved more slowly down the rutted track until at length they reached the point where they were to turn into the swamp. Here the sisters leaned against the wall to rest and recover breath. "My goodness, but that was a narrow escape!" murmured Phoebe.
The road was deeply rutted by heavy wheels, and littered with all manner of débris, broken-down wagons, dead horses, accoutrements thrown away, and occasionally the body of a man, overlooked by the burial squad. Our horses plunged from side to side in fright at the dim objects, snorting wildly, and we were obliged to ride with care, and a tight rein, under the faint guidance of the stars.
And to Sara Lee there came back again some of the characters of the early mise en scène marching men, forage wagons, squadrons of French cavalry escorting various staffs, commandeered farm horses with shaggy fetlocks fastened in rope corrals, artillery rumbling along rutted roads which shook the gunners almost off the limbers. Nothing was changed and everything.
Peterby Paul saw them start on over the now badly rutted road. Helen drove the smaller car with Ruth sitting beside her. Henri Marchand took the wheel of the touring car, and the run to Boston was resumed. "But we must not over-run Tom," said Ruth to her chum. "No knowing what by-path he might have tried in search of the elusive gasoline."
Except that the roadside ditches were littered with beer bottles and scraps of paper, and the road itself rutted by cannon wheels, we saw little enough after leaving Leefdael to suggest that an army had come this way until we were in the outskirts of Brussels. In a tree-edged, grass-plotted boulevard at the edge of the Bois, toward Tervueren, cavalry had halted.
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