CHAPTER XI.
THE LOST TRAIL.
An ocean of trees, by the west wind stirred,
Rolled, ever rolled, to the great cliff’s base:
And its sound like the noise of waves was heard
’Mid the rocks and the caves of that lonely place.
Our time was fast coming to an end. There was but one more expedition before us: to find Mr. Macpherson’s trail, made nine years ago, up the eastern Matukituki—for he had once great ideas and believed these lonely valleys would one day vie with the Otira in drawing strangers hither. So he cut a trail and built a hut, but no one came, and the all-covering bush very soon took charge of his clearings, and sowed them plentifully with strong young saplings; and in process of time the hut became a ruin.
The air was sharp with frost; our smoke curled up blue against the dark of the beeches as I prepared breakfast early, and we sat in the sun to warm ourselves as we ate it. We had brought home a tin packed with eggs the night before, and all but two got broken, so I put the whole of them into the frying-pan; and if it were not an omelette, it was an exceedingly good breakfast. And then we saw our Highlander coming across the flat, leading a spare horse. This was for me;
