Wood-smoke is always for me an intoxication like strong drink.
It seems the incense of nature's altar, calling up the shades of the old forest gods, smacking of rest and comfort in the heart of solitude.
And what odour can vie for hungry folk with that of roasting meat in the clear hush of twilight?
The sight of that little camp is still in my memory.

Elspeth flitted about busied with her cookery, the glow of the sunset lighting up her dark hair.

Bertrand did the roasting, crouched like a gnome by the edge of the fire.

Grey fetched and carried for the cooks, a docile and cheerful servant, with nothing in his look to recall the proud gentleman of the Tidewater.

Donaldson sat on a log, contentedly smoking his pipe, while Ringan, whistling a strathspey, attended to the horses.