On his right towered the stupendous precipice of the Iron Mountain, cleft down from summit to base, showing a ravine of wildly shattered rocks, bristling with clumps of stunted cedar trees, all dimly seen in the darkness of the winter night.
“You don’t call that a pass, do you?” inquired David Lindsay, incredulously, peering out into the gloom.
“Dat’s de road, young marster, sure’s yer born. Yer better look at it good, ’fore yer make up yer mind to try it.”
David Lindsay drew in his head and spoke to his companion.
“Look out and tell me if you still persist in going on,” he said.
“I will look out just to please you, but I am bent on going on!” she replied, as she came forward and gazed up the ravine.
“Well?” inquired young Lindsay.
“Well, it looks threatening—very! But I said that I was bent to go on! Where the mules can go, I can go,” she persisted.
“Drive on!” exclaimed the young man to the driver.
Tubal did not “drive,” however. He slowly descended from his seat and came to the mules’ heads and led them on.