ALT Then he spurred Gringolet, and took up the trail. Trees overhung him, the steep slope close to his shoulder. He pushed on down through the rough, to the gorge-bottom. Wherever he turned his eyes, it looked wilder. Nothing anywhere near that could be a shelter. Only cliffy brinks, beetling above him, Knuckled and broken outcrops, with horned crags. Clouds dragging low, torn by the scouts. There he reigned in his horse and puzzled awhile. Turning his doubts over, he searched for the Chapel. Still he could see nothing. He thought it strange. Only a little mound, a tump, in a clearing, Between the slope and the edge of the river, a knoll, Over the river’s edge, at a crossing place, The burn bubbling under as if it boiled.