The lake lies just over a low divide." Weston started a little and put away his pipe.
"Boys," he said, "we'll get on again." They went on, and the memory of that afternoon long remained with them.

They were grimed with black dust and ashes, and the ranks of charred trunks cast only thin strips of shade, while a scorching sun poured down an almost intolerable heat into the deep valley.

The ground was ankle-deep in dust and charcoal, and, as they floundered through it, feathery ash rose in clouds.

Their clothing grew crusted with it, and it worked through and irritated their heated skin; while every now and then one of them was compelled to stop and splutter.
Their throats, as Grenfell remarked, certainly felt very much like ash-heaps.

None of them had drunk anything since supper the night before, and then only a very little water that tasted alkaline.
Still, except for the loose deposit that made walking difficult, the ground was comparatively clear, and they pushed on, making a detour only now and then around a fallen tree, or waiting for Grenfell, who lagged behind and limped, until the slanting rays beat pitilessly into their faces and their aching eyes were dazzled by the burning glow.
Then Grenfell sat down rather frequently.
"We're going northwest," said Weston once, while they waited for him.
"You said that was how you headed the day before you struck the lake." "Yes," said Grenfell, with an air of trying to recall something.