“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
He held her close and kissed her. There was only room for their four feet.
“It’s a swindle!” he said. “But there’s a rut where a man has been, so if we go on I guess we shall find the path again.”
The river slid and twined its great volume. On the other bank cattle were feeding on the desolate flats. The cliff rose high above Paul and Clara on their right hand. They stood against the tree in the watery silence. “Let us try going forward,” he said; and they struggled in the red clay along the groove a man’s nailed boots had made. They were hot and flushed. Their barkled shoes hung heavy on their steps. At last they found the broken path. It was littered with rubble from the water, but at any rate it was easier. They cleaned their boots with twigs. His heart was beating thick and fast.