“And at any rate, Lyon, no one will think of looking for us so near home,” she added.
“That is true,” he admitted.
And they rode on slowly, looking about as well as they could through the darkness, for a convenient place on which to dismount from the jaded steeds.
Their path now lay through that deep mountain pass. Steep precipices arose on either side. They picked their way slowly and carefully through it, until they entered a crooked path leading down the side of a thickly wooded hill. Here they rode on, a little more at their ease, until they reached the bottom of the hill and the edge of the wood, and came out upon an old forsaken road, running along the shores of a deep and rapid river, with another mountain range behind.
“Well, Heaven bless us! here we are!” exclaimed Lyon Berners, reining up his horse and looking around himself in a ludicrous state of mind, made up of surprise, dismay, and resignation.
“Yes; on the shores of the Black River, at the head of our own Black Valley,” chimed in Sybil, in a tone of voice in which there was more of satisfaction than of disappointment. Poor Sybil was sentimental and illogical, like all her sex.
“But at a point at which, I may venture to say, that even you, its owner, never reached before,” added Lyon, as he touched up his horse and led the way up the road, still looking about as well as he could through the darkness, for a place in which to stop and rest their horses.
Suddenly, as they rode slowly onward, they heard approaching them from the opposite direction the sound of a wagon and horse, accompanied by a human voice, singing:
|
“Brothers and sisters there will meet, Brothers and sisters there will meet, Brothers and sisters there will meet— Will meet, to part no more!” |
“Yes, bress de Lord! so dey will. And all departed friends will meet, and meet to part no more! Glory!” rang out the voice of the singer, who seemed to be working himself up into enthusiasm.