The driver, startled for a moment, soon took in the turn of events, and snatching out his revolver, shot one of the men stationed at the leaders’ heads, and rushed for his companion, who turned and fled.
The darkness increased the confusion—it was difficult to distinguish friend from foe—and Varley was just in time to stop the driver from sending a bullet through him by shouting out:
“All right, Johnson! It’s I—Varley! Keep to the horses; we’ll manage the rest.”
As he spoke, his low, clear voice ringing out, a cry rose from the top of the coach. It was a woman’s voice, and the cry a strange mixture of fear and joy.
Something in it made Varley’s heart jump as it had not hitherto leaped that night. He reined in his plunging horse for a moment.
“God! I must be dreaming!” he muttered.
Then he dashed forward, and snatching one of the huge coach-lamps from its socket, held it above his head and peered up in the darkness.
The light flickered in his grasp as he swayed to his horse’s movements, but as its rays swept across the top of the coach, he saw a woman kneeling on one of the seats, her face, pale but fearless, bent down toward him.
It was Esmeralda—or her ghost!
He gasped, and held the lamp higher.