CHAPTER XXII.
Grave consequences of gravitation--O'Brien enlists himself as a gendarme, and takes charge of me--We are discovered, and obliged to run for it--The pleasures of a winter bivouac.
It was not until noon that I awoke, when I found that O'Brien had covered me more than a foot deep with leaves to protect me from the weather.

I felt quite warm and comfortable; my clothes had dried on me, but without giving me cold.

"How very kind of you, O'Brien!" said I.
"Not a bit, Peter: you have hard work to go through yet, and I must take care of you.

You're but a bud, and I'm a full-blown rose." So saying, he put the spirit-flask to his mouth, and then handed it to me.

"Now, Peter, we must make a start, for depend upon it they will scour the country for us; but this is a large wood, and they may as well attempt to find a needle in a bundle of hay, if we once get into the heart of it." "I think," said I, "that this forest is mentioned by Shakespeare, in one of his plays." "Very likely, Peter," replied O'Brien; "but we are at no playwork now; and what reads amazing prettily, is no joke in reality.