Here flying loosely as the mane
Of a young war-horse in the blast;
There, roll’d in masses dark and swelling,
As proud to be the thunder’s dwelling. —Moore.
I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous.
As full of peril and adventurous spirit,
As to o’erwalk a current, roaring loud,
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. —Shakespeare.
“What! mounted already?” said Major Gordon, as he rode up to the gate of Sweetwater, and saw Kate in the saddle. “I had no idea even that you intended to ride today. I thought, in fact, that we were to read Milton.”
It had come to be as much of a habit for the Major to appear at Sweetwater every morning, as it was for his men to report themselves to him at roll-call. Kate, moreover, always had a smile for him, even if Mrs. Warren had not; and often, before he left, the manner in which the next morning should be spent, whether in riding, reading, or otherwise, was determined.
“Haven’t you heard!” answered Kate, as she arranged her dress, giving a brief nod, her whole demeanor full of excitement.
“I have heard nothing.”
“Not heard it? The woods are on fire. See!”
As she spoke, she pointed with her riding-whip in the opposite direction to that from which her guest had come.
The Major, looking where she indicated, observed, far off, hovering over the distant swamp, a thick, black cloud, which, if the day had been more sultry, he would have supposed to be an approaching thunder storm.
“But why should you go?” he said.