Even Ringan was sober now.
Elspeth asked in a low voice what was wrong, and I told her that the Indian was uncertain of the best road.
"Best road!" she laughed.

"Then pray show me what you call the worst." Ringan grinned at me ruefully.

"Where do you wish yourself at this moment, Andrew ?" "On the top of this damned mountain," I grunted.
"Not for me," he said.

"Give me the Dry Tortugas, on a moonlight night when the breaming fires burn along the shore, and the lads are singing 'Spanish Ladies.' Or, better still, the little isle of St.John the Baptist, with the fine yellow sands for careening, and Mother Daria brewing bobadillo and the trades blowing fresh in the tops of the palms.

This land is a gloomy sort of business.