Snow lay in thick drifts on the skirts of the great moor, and snow whirled about them as they climbed, until day broke upon a howling desert, across which Dorothea peered but could discern no features.
Not leagues but years divided Bayfield from this tableland, high over all the world, uninhabited, without tree or gate or hedge.

Her eyes were heavy with lack of sleep, smarting with the bite of the north wind, which neither ceased nor eased until, towards ten o'clock, the carriage began to lumber downhill towards Two Bridges, under the lee of Crockern Tor.

Beyond came a heavy piece of collar work, the horses dropping to a walk as they heaved through the drifts towards a depression between two tors closing the view ahead.

Dorothea's eyes, avoiding the wind, were fixed on the tor to the left, when Endymion touched her hand and pointed towards the base of the other.

There, grey--almost black--against the white hillside, a mass of masonry loomed up through the weather; the great circle of the War Prison.
The road did not lead them to it direct.