It was bad going, and the fog made it hopeless to steer a good course.

I had out the map and the compass, and tried to fix our route so as to round the flank of a spur of the mountains which separated us from the valley we were aiming at.
'There's a stream ahead of us,' I said to Hussin.

'Is it fordable ?' 'It is only a trickle,' he said, coughing.

'This accursed mist is from Eblis.' But I knew long before we reached it that it was no trickle.
It was a hill stream coming down in spate, and, as I soon guessed, in a deep ravine.

Presently we were at its edge, one long whirl of yeasty falls and brown rapids.