The persecuted preacher was trembling from head to foot.
“I know,” he complained, “that even if I live to reach the bottom of this mountain, which is very unlikely, I shall be good for nothing all the rest of my life.”
As he said this, the party of three, passing around a projecting rock, came in sight of the rear of the band, who were winding down the narrow pass in single file below them.
“Hayden!” cried Colonel Goldsborough, calling out to one of the rear men, who immediately halted.
“Hayden, dismount and turn your horse loose and come here and take the parson’s bridle and lead his beast, or we shall have an accident.”
The soldier addressed smiled good-humoredly as he murmured something to his comrade about the “inconvenience of having women and parsons encumbering them on their march;” and then he dismounted, knotted up his bridle, so that it should not get entangled under his horse’s feet, and leaving his well-trained steed to walk soberly down the path, he came and took the preacher’s bridle and led his cob carefully along the perilous pass.
In this manner they continued their dangerous journey until they reached the foot of the mountain.
“Thank Heaven it is over!” piously exclaimed the parson, as they found themselves safe at the entrance of a wooded valley.
There was no road; but, guided by a pocket compass, the band took their way westward through the forest, until, after marching for about three miles, they came out upon an open plain, dappled here and there with detached groves of trees and gradually ascending towards a range of wooded hills in the distance before them.