Sense of direction left them, for they continually changed the angle,
compelled by the undergrowth to do so. Twigs leaped at them and stung
their faces, Tim's cheeks were splashed with mud, Uncle Felix's clean
white flannels showed irregular lines of dirty water to his knees. It
was altogether a tremendous affair in which rescue and escape were
madly mingled with furious attack and terrified retreat. Everything
was moving, and in all directions at once. They rushed headlong
through the angry Wood. But the Wood itself rushed ever past them. It
was roused.
The confusion and bewilderment had got a little more than they could
manage, indeed, when--quite marvellously and unexpectedly--the
darkness lifted. They saw trees separately instead of in a whirling
mass. The trunks stood more apart from one another. There were patches
of faint light. More--there was a line of light. It shone, grey and
welcome, some dozen yards in front of them.
"Come on!" cried Tim. "Follow me!"
And two minutes later they found themselves outside, torn, worn, and
breathless, upon the edge--standing exactly at the place where they
had entered three-quarters of an hour before.
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