THE FATAL MARRIAGE;
OR,
ORVILLE DEVILLE.
BY
MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
AUTHOR OF “ISHMAEL,” “SELF-RAISED,” “THE MISSING BRIDE,” “A NOBLE
LORD,” “RETRIBUTION,” “A BEAUTIFUL FIEND,” “HOW HE WON HER,” “THE
CHANGED BRIDES,” “TRIED FOR HER LIFE,” “THE BRIDE’S FATE,” “THE LADY OF
THE ISLE,” “CRUEL AS THE GRAVE,” “FALLEN PRIDE,” “THE WIDOW’S SON,”
“ALLWORTH ABBEY,” “THE LOST HEIRESS,” “THE FAMILY DOOM,” “THE GYPSY’S
PROPHECY,” “THE ARTIST’S LOVE,” “THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “VICTOR’S
TRIUMPH,” “THE CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “THE FATAL SECRET,” “THE FORTUNE
SEEKER,” “THE SPECTRE LOVER,” “THE MAIDEN WIDOW,” “THE TWO SISTERS,”
“FAIR PLAY,” “THE BRIDAL EVE,” “VIVIA,” “THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS,” “THE
LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW,” “THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN,” “THE PHANTOM
WEDDING,” “THE MOTHER-IN-LAW,” “THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “THE DESERTED
WIFE,” “THE CHRISTMAS GUEST,” “THE WIFE’S VICTORY,” “LOVE’S LABOR WON,”
“THE THREE BEAUTIES,” “INDIA,” ETC.
“_’Tis an old tale, and often told;
But did my fate and wish agree,
Ne’er had been read in story old,
Of maiden true, betrayed for gold;
Who loved or was avenged like me._”—SCOTT.
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
COPYRIGHT.—1882.
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.— The Outlaw’s Daughter 21
II.— The Outlaw’s Home 35
III.— The Outlaw 41
IV.— Passion 52
V.— Passion and Temptation 67
VI.— The Old Manor-House 90
VII.— The Lady Adelaide Deville 98
VIII.— Which is the Wife? 111
IX.— The Fair Bride 119
X.— Lionne 152
XI.— Interview between Adelaide and Lionne 179
XII.— Self-Sacrifice 194
XIII.— At Bush Creek 200
XIV.— Discovery of the Flight 208
XV.— Betrayer and Betrayed 218
XVI.— Orville and Lionne 222
XVII.— The Midnight Walk 234
XVIII.— The Rescued Wanderer 236
XIX.— Lionne 248
XX.— Adelaide 261
XXI.— Lionne and the Indian Witch 278
XXII.— Lady Adelaide’s Woe 302
XXIII.— Adelaide’s Consolation 313
XXIV.— Lake Island and Castle 332
XXV.— Death at the Fete 343
XXVI.— The Spectre at the Feast 349
XXVII.— The Cleaving Curse 358
XXVIII.— Vengeance 370
XXIX.— An Act of Madness 380
XXX.— A Houseless Night Wanderer 384
XXXI.— The Stranger’s Fate 399
XXXII.— The Wife 405
XXXIII.— Strange Meetings 415
XXXIV.— Melpomene 424
XXXV.— The Meeting 436
XXXVI.— Storms 449
XXXVII.— The Crisis 456
XXXVIII.— The Lioness and the Lamb 461
XXXIX.— The Curse of an Accomplished Vow 465
XL.— The Avenger 469
XLI.— Conclusion 479
THE FATAL MARRIAGE.
CHAPTER I.
THE OUTLAW’S DAUGHTER.
Oh, seldom in hall or court are seen
So queenly a form, so noble a mien,
As, freely and smiling, she welcomes them there,
But her eye has a glance more sternly wild
Than even that of a forest child
In its fearless and untamed freedom should dare.—_Whittier._
It was near the close of a sultry day, late in the month of September,
1755, that Lieutenant Orville Deville, a young officer of Braddock’s
provincial corps, urged his weary war-horse up the steep western ascent
of the “Ridge of Spears,” one of the most difficult and dangerous of the
mountain ranges in the western part of old Maryland.
Behind him, at some short distance, rode toilsomely his faithful
servant, Nero.
As they gained the summit of the mountain an upward-glancing ray of the
sun, striking full upon them, brought out each individual of the group
in distinct relief.
The young soldier seemed not more than eighteen years of age.
His figure was tall, and finely proportioned; his features were cast in
the purest classic mould; his complexion was fair as that of the fairest
lady; his clustering curls were of a pale golden color, and his dark
eyes were fringed with lashes of the same delicate bright hue. This
really beautiful countenance was saved from the slightest suspicion of
effeminacy by the whole character of its expression,—by the flash of the
falcon eyes, the curve of the eagle nose, the curl of the short upper
lip, the upward protrusion of the well-turned chin, the stately carriage
of the head, the erect position of the body, and in short by the general
and unmistakable air of conscious strength, invincible courage, and
almost insufferable arrogance, that distinguished his whole bearing. He
wore the blue-and-buff uniform of the provincials, and sat on his
chestnut thorough-bred with the stately grace of a prince of the blood.
His negro servant, Nero, was an unmixed African, somewhat past
middle-age, whom the birthright service in his young master’s family had
endowed with certain pleasant privileges of familiarity which would
scarcely have been tolerated in an alien, but which were excusable in an
old and tried domestic. For the rest, Nero possessed the usual traits of
his race and caste, somewhat exaggerated in the individual, namely,
unconquerable self-esteem, invincible cheerfulness, irresistible wit,
ardent affections, and an immutable attachment to his master and his
master’s family.
To be the personal attendant of Mr. Orville Deville, Lieutenant in His
Majesty’s provincial corps and heir of River-view in Maryland he
considered just the greatest honor that could be enjoyed by a person of
his color. In fact, Nero seemed to consider that there was but one
greater man than his master’s servant, and that was his master’s SELF.
Nero wore the buff-and-blue livery of a provincial officer’s retainer,
and was mounted on a bay that had once been a draught-horse at
River-view, and was more distinguished for strength of build than
elegance of shape.
As they drew rein at the summit of the mountain, Orville took from his
saddle-pouch a pocket-telescope, arranged it, and pointing it eastward
took the sweep of the horizon.
The features of the landscape were grand and simple. Below his
stand-point fell a precipice of rocks, broken with waterfalls and spiked
with those stiff and bristling cedars that gave the range its name of
the “Ridge of Spears.”
From the foot of this mountain eastward stretched a green valley of
interminable forest-land, veined with broad rivers, waved with hills and
dales, and reaching to the base of the distant Blue Ridge that was
distinctly marked against the gray horizon.
“This is assuredly the ‘vast wilderness,’ the ‘boundless contiguity of
shade,’ for which the poet sighed,—only I do not see the ‘lodge’ that
forms so necessary an item even in the poet’s paradise,’ said the young
man, as he gazed out upon this most unpromising prospect.
“Lodge? Marse Awful, honey, was yer looking out for any lodge?” inquired
the groom, riding nearer to his master.
“Not with any expectation of seeing one, Nero,” replied Orville,
lightly, running up his telescope.
“Don’t shut him up yet, Marse Awful, chile, till yer jes’ turns an’
looks at dat ere big black cloud, and see what it means.”
Orville wheeled around, adjusted his glass and took a sweeping view of
the western prospect.
Its features were very similar to those on the east—that is to say, a
wooded valley, diversified with hill and dale and river, stretched from
the base of the mountain, westward to the Cumberland heights,
immediately over which the setting sun, breaking through a black cloud,
projected level rays of golden light, that for the moment kindled all
the valley in a prismatic conflagration.
“_Dar!_ what you t’ink o’ _dat_, Marse Awful, honey?” inquired the
negro, when he thought that his master had gazed about long enough.
“I think, Nero, that there is no doubt but we shall have a storm before
we find shelter for the night.”
“_Dat’s_ ’couraging,” coolly remarked the black.
“There is not,” continued the young man, as he swept the landscape with
his glass, “there is not a sign of a human habitation in sight—not a
roof, not a chimney, nor even an eddying curl of smoke to mark the
presence of man!”
“Dat’s more ’couraging nor de oder!”
“Nero!”
“Nero! an’ allus Nero! It used for to be ‘Uncle Nero;’ but since he done
gone to the wars, he done put heself on to his diggerty an’ calls his
old sarvint, as is ole ’nough to be his daddy, Ne-ro! but it ’comes him!
’deed it really do! he do look like any young prince a-speakin’ to his
primest minister, when he lifts up his nose and says—Ne-ro,” thought the
old negro, as he looked half in reproach, half in affectionate
admiration, upon his haughty young master.
“Nero, I say!” repeated the latter.
“Well, sar, yes, here I is,” exclaimed the old man, approaching.
“Nero, we shall have to camp out all night.”
“Now de Lor’ forbid! How we dem gwine ’camp out all night’ widout any
_camp_?—an’ a thunderstorm acomin’ along of a soaking rain, an’ you not
fully ’covered of yer wouns’s!”
“There is no help for it, I am sure; so the best thing to be done now,
is to look out for the most convenient spot for the purpose.”
“An’ find a water-prof tree for a roof an’ a sof’ rock for a pillow!
What do you ’spose de fair Lady Adelaide say to dat?”
“Nero, you are privileged,” replied the youth, who, arrogant as was his
nature, yet allowed to his old attendant somewhat of that wild liberty
of speech accorded by a king to his court-jester.
“I am ‘privileged!’ I wonder ef how he thinks it’s a great privilege to
be ’lowed to sleep on a downy stone underneaf of a thunder-cloud
coverlet?—ef so ‘I waive de privilege,’ as I once hear one gemman say to
anoder.”
“Come, come, sir,” impatiently exclaimed the young gentleman—“look to
yourself! what are you thinking about?”
“I were a-thinking ’bout my _privileges_, marster,” demurely replied the
old man.
“Well, now think about finding an encampment for the night. The sun has
set; and look! how that cloud is spreading and darkening!”
“Yes, marster; it will make a good ample blanket to cover us bime-bye,
when we find sof’, ’lastic, gravelly beds.”
“Rascal!” said the young man, half smiling, “get down and see to my
saddle-girth and tighten your own, for we must descend the mountain to
find a resting-place, and the steep is really very difficult.”
“Yes, marster, honey: but I makes no doubt as we shall _get to de bottom
of it—somehow_,” said the negro, drily, as he looked down the fearful
precipice, where jagged rocks, spiked cedars, treacherous sliding stones
and rushing waterfalls, alike threatened interruption, or distruction to
the daring adventurer.
“True; it _is_ a very dangerous pass,” said the young gentleman,
replying to his servant’s look, “but what then? you and I are used to
these things: we have shared many dangers together.”
“Y-e-s—y-e-s—,” said the old man, hesitatingly, “_we_ have shared
danger, but _you_ have shared all de glory, which shows de unequality of
human fortunes.”
“Are you discontented, sirrah?”
“No, I’m _not_ a discontented sinner! but I hopes I’se a philosopher,”
said the old man, bridling.
“Then let your philosophy regulate our horses’ accoutrements, or the
storm will be upon us before we reach the base of the mountain. Come,
come, let us hasten!”
“Marster, chile, de longer we is in getting to de foot o’ dat same
mountain, de better for our state o’ health. ‘Slow an’ sure’ holds good
dis time, sartin. What Lady Adelaide gwine do long of a crippled
bridegroom?”
“Silence, sirrah!”
“Oh, I can be a silent sinner, ef yer likes; but dat don’t change
nuffin,” grumbled the old man, as he dismounted and tightened his
horse’s girdle, and then went and performed the same service for his
master.
“Now then,” said the young gentleman, “keep a tight rein on your horse,
Nero, or he will be likely to stumble and cast you over his head.”
“God knows my arms is almos’ pulled out’n der sockets now, wid keepin’ a
tight rein on him,” replied the darky, as he prepared to precede his
master, for the purpose, if possible, of finding a path down the
precipice.
At that moment a low muttering of thunder reverberated through the sky,
and was echoed sullenly from all the caverns. The black cloud driven
before the wailing wind, overcast the whole heavens; its shadow fell
darkly over the whole mountain, and heavily upon the hearts of the
travelers. As the youth looked up a single large drop of rain fell full
upon his forehead. Again the thunder rolled over head, and was re-echoed
from the gorges.
“It is coming—it is upon us,” exclaimed the young soldier, looking
around less in dismay than in admiration at the sublimity of the
gathering storm. But just as the second peal of thunder rolled away, and
died in silence among the distant dales, _another_ and a very different
sound was heard—a sound full of hope and promise—in fact a huntsman’s
horn, winding the sweet, clear, short notes of the _recall_.
Both master and man drew rein to stop and listen, and look in each
other’s faces with joy.
“There is at least a prospect of shelter. Some stanch sportsman who has
been out all day, warned by the rising storm, is now returning home by
this pass. Good! we will join his company.”
“Yes, marster, sartin, glory be to the Lord! but aint it reyther airly
in the season for a huntsman to be about?” inquired the negro, in doubt.
“The last of September. Well, yes, rather, as you say—at least we on the
Potomac should think so; but I suppose these wild mountaineers do not
adhere very rigidly to the laws of woodcraft. We will wait until this
huntsman comes up. By my life a sweet note!” said the young gentleman,
as the hunting-horn was heard again, sounding nearer.
But just then a crash of thunder, attended by a glare of lightning,
broke over the earth. The air shook, the horses trembled under their
riders. Yet, when the shock was passed, and the smoke, as it were,
cleared off, again was heard the silver notes of the huntsman’s horn
winding the recall.
“Trallal lalla! Trallal lalla! Trallal lalla! Tralleura—leura—leu!”
“A _very_ sweet note!” exclaimed the youth.
“I wish he would hurry along,” said the servant.
And, as if in an answer to his prayer, the horn suddenly wound up its
notes and ceased, and the sound of a horse’s hoofs were heard
approaching at full gallop from the opposite or western declivity of the
ridge.
“Ah! he is mounted. So much the better, we shall reach shelter all the
sooner.”
“And he has a whole pack of hounds at his heels! Listen, marster, I hear
the pattering of their feet!”
“We hear every thing in these echoing passes.”
“I wish we could see as well, marster; you has good optics—can you see
him?”
“No; he has not yet appeared above the edge of the ridge,—yes! there he
is!” said the young man, as an equestrian figure was seen rising upon
the edge of the mountain.
When, just at that instant, a blinding glare of lightning seemed to set
the whole heavens and earth in flames, and a deafening peal of thunder
broke and rolled crashing down the abyss of space, followed by a sudden
darkness that seemed to have swallowed up all nature in original night
and chaos!
For a full minute the young soldier remained transfixed to the spot
But, in the mean time, the equestrian hunter, through storm and
darkness, gloom and deadly peril, had reached his side; for as soon as
the thunder had rolled away, and howled itself to death in the distance,
and the black cloud was lifted——
Orville Deville looked up, and saw, with astonishment, in the person of
the supposed huntsman—a young girl, a beautiful, wild creature, well
mounted on a spirited black horse, accoutred, cap-a-pie, as a huntress,
and attended by a pack of stanch hounds.
For a moment the young soldier stood gazing in silent admiration.
Yes! For she who thus ominously heralded by lightning and thunder had
suddenly broken upon his sight, was beautiful, beyond possibility of
comparison with any woman whom he had ever before gazed upon.
She was a brilliant brunette, of not more than fifteen years of age,
with a slight, elegant, and graceful form, that sat her horse with equal
ease and command. Her features were irregular, as those of every
characteristic or bewitching face must necessarily be; her complexion
was of a warm, rich olive, ripening into a ruddy bloom upon the round
cheeks: her shining hair, her flashing eyes, quaintly curved eyebrows
and long eyelashes, seemed intensely black. But that which gave
individual character to the enchanting face was this combination,—eyes
too full of lightning, and lips too plump and red, indicating a nature
at once tender and spirited, loving and fiery; one of those characters
that seldom or ever follow a common-place career, or fill an ordinary
station; one who, according to circumstances, may become devoted and
heroic, or sensual and vindictive; that may be developed, in this world,
into heroes or into criminals, and become in the next—angels or devils!
The costume of this beautiful wild creature was picturesque. A
riding-habit of black merino fitted perfectly her elegant figure; a
riding-hat of black felt, adorned with one black plume, shaded her
sparkling face; gray-gauntlets with deep cuffs, recently donned, covered
her hands. From the right-side saddle-horn hung a game-bag well filled,
and the silver pipe whose sounds had preceded her approach. Lastly, in
her right hand, she carried a light fowling-piece.
Such were her dress and accoutrements; but ever from them the eyes of
the spectator came back to look upon her beautiful strange face, with
all its dark and bright promises. Intellect, passion, will,—all were
here in their undeveloped strength—what should life make of them and of
her?
None of these questions, however, passed through the mind of young
Orville Deville as he gazed for a moment, entranced, upon the beautiful
wild maiden before him. In her singular, bright countenance he saw only
its marvellous beauty, felt only its wondrous fascination. He did not
even speculate upon the circumstance of meeting in the mountain
wilderness this bright young girl in the garb of a sportsman. He felt
only her “glamour” that was momentarily growing upon him.
For a moment they gazed upon each other—he with ardent admiration, she
with surprise and curiosity.
Then suddenly recollecting himself, he lifted his tasselled cap, and
bowing deeply, even to the flaps of his saddle, said:
“Young lady, I am Lieutenant Orville Deville, of his Majesty’s
Provincials, returning with my servant from the fatal field of
Braddock’s lost battle. I have missed my way, and would crave of your
courtesy some direction to the nearest place of shelter.”
With the fearless gaze of a young Amazon, the wild girl looked at the
speaker, as though she would have read his history, character, and
purpose in his face. She hesitated to reply.
Old Nero looked upon both with infinite disgust—“Why de debil don’t
Marse Awful speak _plain_? De young thing don’t unnesstan’ de fus word
he say. Why can’t he ax her—Young gall, for goramity’s sake, tell us
whar we can run in out o’ de storm?”
Nero was wrong. She understood the speaker: she only paused to read
him—as if ever a young girl read aright a young man whom she began first
by admiring. The scrutiny, however, seemed to satisfy her, for she
answered him by saying, in tones which he thought the clearest and
sweetest that he had ever heard,
“At the foot of the mountain, sir, is my father’s house: he will make
you welcome to a supper and lodging.”
“Dar! _dat’s_ somefin like talk, now!” said the black to himself.
With another and a deeper bow, and with his eyes, whose admiring gaze he
could scarcely restrain, fixed upon her face, the young man replied:
“I earnestly thank you, and gladly accept your kind proffer.”
And so saying, with a smile and a wave of the hand, he backed his horse
and gave the young girl the pass.
But instead of going forward, she turned her sunbright face over her
shoulder and looked in the direction of the way whence they had all
come.
“Pardon me; you are waiting for some one?” suggested the young man, with
a just perceptible tinge of—what? yes, early as it was in their
acquaintance—of incipient _jealousy_!
“No, sir, I am waiting for no one; but since I have been so lucky as to
meet you, perhaps you would not mind doing me a small favor?” said the
young huntress, turning her graceful head, and lifting her dark eyes to
his face.
“A thousand with delight! Speak, bright one: we are at your orders,”
exclaimed the gentleman, earnestly pressing closer toward her steed.
“Marster in hebben, ef de ’fernal fools don’t mean ter stand here and
larver der furnel nonsense all night, wid de rain jes ’bout ter come
down. Lord! Lord! Lord! Lord! now she’ll take jes as long ter larver
back again!” mentally ejaculated the old negro, in distress.
She did not, however. Eying the young officer shyly yet proudly, she
answered promptly and to the point:
“Well, sir, since you are so good, I must tell you that to-day, on the
other declivity of the mountain, I was so fortunate as to shoot a young
buck, which, however, I had no means of bringing home.”
“Humph! dat aint de _onliest young buck_ as you’ve shot to-day I’ll take
_my_ oath,” significantly commented the old man.
“Well, beautiful Diana, I should applaud that feat in one of your sex,
did admiration for the bright girl leave room for admiration of the keen
huntress,” exclaimed the youth, scarcely able to withdraw his fascinated
eyes from their gaze of adoration.
“Sir!” ejaculated the untamed creature, suddenly flashing upon him her
black, scintillating and sparkling eyes. She evidently had not caught
the sense or spirit of his courtly speech.
Her unsophisticated perplexity must have confused Orville Deville, could
any thing have embarrassed that self-possessed young gentleman; he
replied:
“I await your commands, bright Diana.”
“My name is not Diana. It is Lionne, if you wish to know it; but that is
not what I was talking about. The buck I struck lies some half a mile
back. I should thank you if you would let your man go with me and bring
it before him on his horse.”
“Oh! Lor’ goramity, ef she don’t mean to keep me out’n de storm all
night, long o’ her _buck_!” whined the old man, to himself.
Apparently Mr. Deville disapproved the proposition; for, after some
seconds delay, he gently inquired:
“But would you linger longer in the storm?”
“What!—a _soldier_ and AFEARD?” suddenly hissed the wild creature, in
his ear, with a look and tone that might have become Lady Macbeth, when
uttering the same words.
So startling was the effect of the change that transfigured her whole
countenance, that the old negro, taken by surprise, suddenly backed his
horse, and, with the superstition of his race, exclaimed:
“Dis gal’s de berry debbil in female ‘parrel! I doesn’t wonder, I
doesn’t, as she comed wid thunder an’ lightenin’ She don’t bode us no
good—_she_ don’t!”
The half savage thing laughed loudly at the effect she had produced upon
the negro, and then turned her black eyes, flashing with fierce fun,
upon his master.
But that hero was apparently above being startled by trifles, or even by
the prodigy of hearing this beautiful demi-barbarian, this young
huntress of the mountain wilderness, quote Shakspeare. Thinking only of
himself, and the implied doubt of his manhood, he answered with some
hauteur:
“Madam, I was consulting only your own comfort, most assuredly not my
convenience!”
“Quits!” she gayly replied. “But there was no need to pause. The
gust—for I cannot call _this_ a storm—is over, or nearly so. Look! the
Storm King is vanquished! Behold the oriflamb of his retiring host!” she
said, pointing to the flaming western horizon, where the thunderclouds,
broken into a thousand wild fragments, like rent banners of purple,
crimson, and gold, seemed sinking in a sea of blood.
The eyes of the young soldier followed her finger, and turned in
admiration from the gorgeous sunset scene to the irradiated face of the
girlish enthusiast, whose picturesque and poetic language was as strange
to him as every other circumstance relating to her.
“‘The Storm King is vanquished,’ as you said. It has scarcely thundered
or lightened since you appeared upon the mountain; therefore you must be
the Joan who has vanquished the terrible invader,” he said.
“My name is no more Joan than Diana, sir; I am Lionne, as I said
before.”
“But why should you be called Lionne?”
“I cannot tell you, sir; I was not consulted at the christening!”
“Well, Diana, Joan, or Lionne, you are the most bewitching creature I
ever met; but tell me, then, is the storm really over?”
“You are not used to our mountain gusts or you would know that it is.
They are upon us and gone ere one can say it lightens, almost. See, sir!
the rain has rolled down to the valleys,” she said, pointing to where
the vale, dim in the evening gloom, looked dimmer still with low lying
mist or falling rain.
Orville Deville gazed with curiosity and interest upon this strange
aspect of Nature.
Never before had he looked upon a shower from such an elevated point of
view. Its effect was singular.
Upon the mind of the old black it was terrific.
“Who de debbil ebber see de rain a-fallen underneaf ob dem before? Dis
is witchcraft,—pure, debblish witchcraft,—and _she’s_ de witch! I wish
me an’ Marse Awful was ’livered ob bofe ob dem, I does!” he mentally
exclaimed, with chattering teeth.
“Now, if we had gone on,” continued Lionne, “we should have ridden right
down into the rain; but as it is, by the time we get our buck and
return, the shower will be over in the valley. And so,” she said,
turning her sparkling black eyes upon the discontented face of the old
negro, “you have lost nothing by the change, uncle.”
“Me! oh yes, thanky, mist’ess! _same to you, ma’am, ’deed_!” exclaimed
the terrified black, rather incoherently, as he sprang his horse away
from the dangerous enchantress.
“We will hurry, if you please, sir,” said the huntress, turning her
horse’s head, and riding back upon the road, followed eagerly by the
young officer, and reluctantly by the old man.
A ride of ten minutes down the western declivity of the ridge brought
them to the spot, a little to the left of their path, where in a thicket
the game lay,—a fine half-grown deer.
Mr. Deville dismounted, and assisted his servant in raising and laying
the carcass across the shoulders of the negro’s horse. Then both sprang
into their saddles, turned rein, and began to re-ascend.