My little legs began to tremble to and fro upon Peggy's sides, as I heard the dead robber in chains behind us, and thought of the live ones still in front.
"But, John," I whispered warily, sidling close to his saddle-bow; "dear John, you don't think they will see us in such a fog as this ?" "Never God made vog as could stop their eyesen," he whispered in answer, fearfully; "here us be by the hollow ground.

Zober, lad, goo zober now, if thee wish to see thy moother." For I was inclined, in the manner of boys, to make a run of the danger, and cross the Doone-track at full speed; to rush for it, and be done with it.

But even then I wondered why he talked of my mother so, and said not a word of father.
We were come to a long deep "goyal," as they call it on Exmoor, a word whose fountain and origin I have nothing to do with.

Only I know that when little boys laughed at me at Tiverton, for talking about a "goyal," a big boy clouted them on the head, and said that it was in Homer, and meant the hollow of the hand.

And another time a Welshman told me that it must be something like the thing they call a "pant" in those parts.
Still I know what it means well enough--to wit, a long trough among wild hills, falling towards the plain country, rounded at the bottom, perhaps, and stiff, more than steep, at the sides of it.