The great fire was burnt to a mass of coals. The wind filled the ravines with a tumult of sound. The bare woods were in wild commotion. The gusts dashed upon the roof snow, perhaps, or sleet, or vague drizzling rain; now discontinued, now coming again with redoubled force.
Suddenly, a growl from the dogs under the house; then the sound of a crunching hoof in the snow.
The men sallied forth, swift and silent as shadows. There was a frantic struggle in the road; a wild cry for help; a pistol fired wide of the mark, the report echoing in the silence from crag to crag, from chasm to chasm, with clamorous iteration, as if it would alarm the world. The horses were ready. The men hastily threw themselves into the saddle.
It had been arranged that Kelsey, who had no horse, should ride before the prisoner.
He mounted, drew about his own waist the girth which bound the doomed man, buckling it securely, and the great grey horse was in the centre of the squad.
Micajah Green begged as they went—begged as only a man can for his life. He denied, he explained, he promised.
'Ye cotton ter puttin' folks in jail, 'Cajah! Yer turn now! We'll put ye whar the dogs won't bite ye,' said the old man savagely.
And the rest said never a word.
The skies were dark, the mountain wilds awful in their immensity, in their deep obscurities, in the multitudinous sounds of creaking boughs and shrilling winds.
They were in the dense laurel at last. The branches, barbed with ice, and the evergreen leaves, burdened with snow, struck sharply in their faces as they forced their way through.