“Yes, and a dark road before me,” replied the young gentleman.
“I hope for your sake it isn’t a long one, sir.”
“It is about five miles directly in the face of the wind,” laughed Mr. Lyon.
“Sorry to hear it on your account, sir. The weather’s sharpish. The wind’s got round to the northud and blows up pretty keenish. I wish you well at your journey’s end, sir.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Alexander rode briskly away.
The night had grown bitterly cold; but his horse was fresh, and the rider thought that in such weather as this it would do the beast no harm to ride him hard. So he put him into a gallop, and soon left the gas-lighted, populous streets behind, and found himself in a dark and lonely road, where nothing was to be seen on either side but wintry woods and stubble fields, frozen brooks and straggling fences, and at long intervals some isolated dwelling.
At length he came to the old turnpike road leading through the woods towards his home. Here it was necessary to slacken speed; for the road was obstructed in many places, and the sky was very dark. So he drew rein at the entrance of the wood, and went on in a walk.
Notwithstanding the rapidity with which he had galloped over the five miles on the Seventh street road, his blood was half stagnant with the cold. His face, after smarting fiercely in the wind had lost all sense of feeling, and his hands were so numb that he could scarcely hold the bridle.