Margaret understood, and was silent. After a few moments, however, she said:
"We fly over the ground like lightning. Can it be that Samp has lost control of the horses? Oh, aunty! there he goes! He's off the box! They're running away with us! We must jump out!"
"We must not jump out," said Mrs. Grey, in a tone that made Margaret pause. "It would be death to us both."
"What shall we do, then?"
"We must trust ourselves to Him who, if He can hold the winds in His fist, can certainly control these animals. And if He does not think it best to do that—if they rush on and plunge down the riverbank—why, it would be an easier death than martyrdom."
She was as quiet as if seated on her sofa at home.
Margaret grew quiet too. They clasped each other's hands and waited.
The horses flew on; they were nearing the river; now for it! They are over!
Neither knew anything more till they awoke as from a sleep, and found themselves at home; Mrs. Grey lying on her bed; Margaret being borne to her room on a door that hasty hands had torn from its hinges. The house was full, but by degrees faithful Mary cleared it of all but those whose presence was needed; and the physicians proceeded to examine the patients. Mrs. Grey's injury was on the head, but not serious. Margaret had a fractured ankle, and many bruises. Each forgot herself, and thought only of the other; but it was ten days before they met. Margaret was shocked when Mrs. Grey, with a face all colors, from the bruises on her head, was supported into her room, and made light of her own severer injury. It was comfort to see each other even in this unsatisfactory way, but Mrs. Grey had time to recover entirely before Margaret could leave her bed. And for a long time she was in too much pain to think or to feel much on any subject. But at last she said, abruptly:
"Aunty, did you expect to be killed that day?"