In these lower levels there was more smoke, that smeared out and
thickened the mist. Suddenly a breath of air parted the fog as if
it were a torn curtain. Like a shot Bobby went down the crag,
leaping from rock to rock, scrambling under thorns and hazel
shrubs, dropping over precipitous ledges, until he looked down a
sheer fall on which not even a knot of grass could find a foothold.
He took the leap instantly, and his thick fleece saved him from
broken bones; but when he tried to get up again his body was racked
with pain and his hind legs refused to serve him.
Turning swiftly, he snarled and bit, at them in angry disbelief
that his good little legs should play false with his stout heart.
Then he quite forgot his pain, for there was the sharp ring of iron
on an anvil and the dull glow of a forge fire, where a smith was
toiling in the early hours of the morning. A clever and resourceful
little dog, Bobby made shift to do without legs. Turning on his
side, he rolled down the last slope of Castle Rock. Crawling
between two buildings and dropping from the terrace on which they
stood, he fell into a little street at the west end and above the
Grassmarket.
Here the odors were all of the stables. He knew the way, and that
it was still downward. The distance he had to go was a matter of a
quarter of a mile, or less, and the greater part of it was on the
level, through the sunken valley of the Grassmarket.
Pages:
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217