The mare, feeling herself free, thought better of it, and wheeling round dropped her fore feet on the path once more.
Foster-father's loud Arabic thanksgiving ended in an equally loud order.
"Get off the mare, woman.

Horse-chestnut is the only mount thou art fit for.

Roy! carry that foolish umbrella behind." "In front--the emblems are ever carried in front," protested Head-nurse feebly.
"I said behind," was all the answer she got, and behind it went while they toiled up and up.
After a while the road became surprisingly bad; nothing in fact but a watercourse, and Foster-father began to doubt if they could be on the right way.

Possibly, when they were all excited over the mare's bad behaviour, they had taken a wrong turning.

But as the path led ever upwards, he judged it better to go on, though it was terribly hard work.
Every moment the road became worse and worse until it ceased to be more than a mere ladder of rocks which puzzled even Horse-chestnut.