“Dear Jack, don’t say ’tis thunder! I do mortally fear thunder—and mice.”
“’Twouldn’t be thunder at this time of year. No, ’tis guns firing.”
“Where?—not that I mind guns.”
“Ahead of us.”
On the far side of the valley we enter’d a wood, thinking by this to shorten our way: for the road here took a long bend to eastward. Now, at first this wood seem’d of no considerable size, but thicken’d and spread as we advanced. ’Twas only, however, after passing the ridge, and when daylight began to fail us, that I became alarm’d. For the wood grew denser, with a tangle of paths criss-crossing amid the undergrowth. And just then came the low mutter of cannon again, shaking the earth. We began to run forward, tripping in the gloom over brambles, and stumbling into holes.
For a mile or so this lasted: and then, without warning, I heard a sound behind me, and look’d back, to find Delia sunk upon the ground.
“Jack, here’s a to-do!”
“What’s amiss?”
“Why, I am going to swoon!”
The words were scarce out, when there sounded a crackling and snapping of twigs ahead, and two figures came rushing toward us—a man and a woman. The man carried an infant in his arms: and tho’ I call’d on them to stop, the pair ran by us with no more notice than if we had been stones. Only the woman cried, “Dear Lord, save us!” and wrung her hands as she pass’d out of sight.