There were marks of human feet at the top of the deep-water inlet--not mine, for they were on the other side.

The short sea-turf was bruised and trampled in several places, and there were broken stems of bracken.

I thought that some fisherman had probably landed there to stretch his legs.
But that set me thinking of the Portuguese Jew.

After breakfasting on my last morsels of food--a knuckle of braxy and a bit of oatcake--I set about tracking him from the place where he had first entered the glen.
To get my bearings, I went back over the road I had come myself, and after a good deal of trouble I found his spoor.

It was pretty clear as far as the stream, for he had been walking--or rather running--over ground with many patches of gravel on it.