"Thank you, Nick," was his grateful cry as he flashed away.
"We'll follow him," cried Edward Pullar, as he watched the flying horseman vanish at the end of the lane. "Sykes is a dangerous man and the lad has nothing but his bare hands."
Leaning low over Darkey's neck, Ned heartened the lithe brute with the courage of his voice. As they flew along, the school gleamed down a vista. The memory of their last moments together, of the small white figure so lonely and beset, swept him with an agony of apprehension. Though his horse was skimming the trail with the speed of a swallow, their pace seemed laggard to the anguished rider and he plunged in his spurs. Smitten with fear, the animal leaped ahead at breakneck speed. Instantly Ned realized the wantonness of the act. Pulling gently he called penitently into the black ears:
"Forgive me, Darkey. I was cruel. I will do it no more. But carry me fast, lad."
The kind tone soothed the horse and he settled into a steady stride that devoured the miles. Overhead a change had taken place unnoticed by Ned in the hurry-skurry of his start. The belt of blue clouds had spread over the sky. Above was the explosion and flame of the breaking storm, about him the whirl of the wind and enveloping clouds of dust. It was a wild race through the hurricane to the brow of the Northwest Cut. Recklessly they dashed down the ravine, the sound of the pounding hoofs lost in the roar of the tempest. The dense cloud masses flung over them the shadow of a deep twilight.
Bursting from the Cut he halted on the crown of the slope. Below was the lake, a frowning gloom, horrible with the white fangs of the storm caps. High over the Storm Rock rose an ominous cloud of spray. Above the hiss of the whistling wind he could hear the low moan of writhing waters.
Swiftly he read the turbid surface, tracing the shore line now scarcely distinguishable in the brown murk. Near at hand was Grant's Landing. He started as he detected upon it a group of people. They were looking out into the lake. At sight of them, there came to him an augury of evil. With a heavy foreboding he sent his horse thundering down the slope. Leaping from the saddle he ran in among the watchers. In the uproar they had not heard him ride up.
"There is something wrong!" cried a fearful voice. "They are drifting. They will strike the rock."
He recognized the voice of Margaret Grant.
Her father was the first to discover his presence.