They watched the shadows growing longer and longer. It was a race, with everything against the weary horses reaching their destination before the descending sun gave the signal for the death of April’s lover.
“Faster, Uncle Jastrow!”
The words were becoming more and more frequent, and April, sitting straight and tense, gazed ahead with burning eyes.
Through woods and swamps; past fields of green grain, over small bridges that rattled as they sped by; up hill and down they hastened on under the direction of the boy who pointed out the turnings. Dorothea had tried not to consider the possibility of being too late; but now she was unable to control the despair clutching at her heart.
“How much farther is it?” she demanded of the boy in the seat directly before her.
“It must be a matter of ten mile yet,” he replied over his shoulder. Stolid as he was, his youth had caught the spirit of the grim contest and seemed to resent being forced to take his eyes from the road before them.
At his words a sort of sob came through the tightened lips of old Uncle Jastrow.
“’Deed, Lil’ Miss, we can’t make it!” he murmured.
“We must!” came April’s unfaltering words. “We must make it!”
“It’s bound to kill ’em!” the old darky answered.