After a short but
determined breasting of the storm, during which my breath had nearly
failed me, she suddenly stopped.
"'Do you know,' she exclaimed in a low impressive tone, 'that we are
on the verge of a steep and dreadful precipice? It runs along here
for a quarter of a mile and it is not an uncommon thing for a horse
and rider to be dashed over it in a night like this.'
"There was something in her manner that awakened a chill in my veins
almost as if she had pointed out some dreadful doom which I had
unwittingly escaped.
"'This is, then, a dangerous road,' I murmured.
"'Very,' was her hurried and almost incoherent reply.
"How far we travelled through the mud and tangled grasses of that
horrible road I do not know. It seemed a long distance; it was
probably not more than three quarters of a mile. At last she paused
with a short 'Here we are;' and looking up, I saw that we were in
front of a small unlighted cottage.
"No refuge ever appeared more welcome to a pair of sinking wanderers I
am sure. Wet to the skin, bedrabbled with mud, exhausted with
breasting the gale, we stood for a moment under the porch to regain
our breath, then with her characteristic energy she lifted the knocker
and struck a smart blow on the door.
"'We will find shelter here,' said she.
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