The glen, whose bottom he was trying to reach, was a black profound gulf, with perpendicular, or rather over-hanging walls, on every side, save where he was scrambling down.

Here indeed it was possible for a horse to keep his footing among the belts of trees, that, alternating with precipitous granite cliff, formed the upper end of one of the most tremendous glens in the world--the Gates of the Murray.
He was barely one-third of the way down this mountain wall, when the poor tired horse lost his footing and fell over the edge, touching neither tree nor stone for five hundred feet, while George Hawker was left terrified, hardly daring to peer into the dim abyss, where the poor beast was gone.
But it was little matter.

The hut he was making for was barely four miles off now, and there was meat, drink, and safety.

Perhaps there might be company, he hoped there might,--some of the gang might have escaped.

A dog would be some sort of friend, anything sooner than such another night as last night.
His pistols were gone with the saddle, and he was unarmed.