During our night tramps, it was solemn to hear the voice of them below in the valleys, now booming like thunder, now with an angry cry.

I could well understand the story of the Water Kelpie, that demon of the streams, who is fabled to keep wailing and roaring at the ford until the coming of the doomed traveller.

Alan I saw believed it, or half believed it; and when the cry of the river rose more than usually sharp, I was little surprised (though, of course, I would still be shocked) to see him cross himself in the manner of the Catholics.
During all these horrid wanderings we had no familiarity, scarcely even that of speech.

The truth is that I was sickening for my grave, which is my best excuse.

But besides that I was of an unforgiving disposition from my birth, slow to take offence, slower to forget it, and now incensed both against my companion and myself.