“Is—is—her pony a safe one?” stammered the persecuted preacher, as he clambered up into his seat.
“Her pony is all right,” laughed Albert. “Go ahead!”
The band, under the immediate charge of Mutchison, was now defiling through the narrow pass leading from the table land down the side of the mountain.
Colonel Goldsborough, with his two captives, took the same direction. He rode on the right side of Elfie, while the preacher rode on the left, until they came to the narrow pass down which the line of mounted men was winding like some huge serpent.
Then Goldsborough ordered the preacher to precede Elfie, while he himself should follow her, thus forming a guard of honor immediately before and behind the captive bride.
In this manner they commenced the descent of the dangerous mountain pass.
Albert Goldsborough, in the spirit of his promise, forbore to force his conversation upon his companion.
Elfie rode on in sulky silence until her tongue was tired of keeping still, when she opened her mouth and spake:
“I thought the ‘Devil’s Dripping Pan,’ or ‘Soup Dish,’ or whatever you call your horrid place up there on the mountain top, was to be the general rendezvous of your bands.”
“We thought so too, Elfie.”