“Lancelot?”
“Mmmm?” He was already partially asleep.
“We need to stay here. A snowstorm is coming.”
Large flakes fell from the sky for the next three days, and it was three more before we could leave the cabin. I was grateful for the extra time to rest and recover from our injuries.
But soon enough, the sun broke through the clouds, turning the forest into a wonderland of glittering snow and shining ice, a frozen paradise into which we ventured, full of hope that we would soon be home. Our progress was slow. Lancelot was still limping and leaning on a stripped pine branch for support. We took turns carrying the heavy pack of supplies, and I had to stop often to give both him and my shoulder a rest. Another two days passed before we finally came upon the old Roman road leading to Isca.
