The open spaces were marshy, where our horses sank to the hocks.

The woods were one medley of fallen trees, rotting into touchwood, hidden boulders, and matted briers.
Often we could not move till Donaldson and Bertrand with their hatchets had hewn some sort of road.

All this meant slow progress, and by midday we had not gone half-way up the glen to the neck which meant the ridge of the pass.
This was an occasion when Ringan showed at his best.

He had lost his awe of Elspeth, and devoted himself to making the road easy for her.
Grey, who would fain have done the same, was no match for the seafarer, and had much ado to keep going himself.

Ringan's cheery face was better than medicine.