“Sit still! you’re all right!” shouted Lenman, striking his horses with the whip. They broke into a trot, and a few minutes later entered the dense wood, where they were safe from the danger that threatened them a moment before. Indeed, the volley of wind was as brief as a discharge of musketry, passing instantly, though it still howled through the wood, with a dismal effect, which made all heartily wish they were somewhere else.
It was so dark that, but for the flashes of lightning, the passengers would have been unable to see each other’s forms; but the horses were so familiar with the route that they needed no guidance. The driver allowed them to walk, while he held the lines taut to check them on the instant it might be necessary.
Wagstaff and McGovern climbed forward, and crowded themselves on the seat beside the New Englander, each firmly grasping his rifle, for, as they advanced into the wood, their thoughts were of the criminal who they believed would challenge them before they could reach the other side.
Still the rain held off, though the lightning was almost incessant and continually showed the way in front. The wind, too, abated, and all began to breathe more freely.
“I guess the robber won’t dare show himself to-night,” said Wagstaff, speaking rather his wish than his belief.
“What’s to hinder him?” asked Ethan Durrell.
“The storm.”
The driver laughed outright.
“It’s just what is in his favor—hulloa!”
“Gracious! what’s the matter?” gasped Wagstaff, as the team suddenly halted, of their own accord; “let’s get out.”