She rode all night, less sensible to danger and fatigue than the hardy little mountain pony that was carrying her light weight, but straining every nerve and sinew in the service. The night was deeply dark—the clouds thick, heavy and lowering; she had no means of computing time or distance, but farms, forests and fields continued to loom, appear and vanish, as she fled past them. She watched the East with feverish anxiety for day. But still mountain, meadow, and moorland came and went, as she approached and hurried by them, and still deep darkness hung like a pall over Heaven and earth. Vainly she watched the East, for hamlet, village or town in turn was seen and reached and left behind, and still a wall of dense blackness blocked up the Orient.
A new and very serious danger threatened her every instant—her poor horse, fatigued nearly to death, was ready to fall, and she did not know it. He reeled and tottered, and stumbled and recovered himself many times, and she did not see or feel it! nay, she mechanically exerted every nerve and sinew to hold him up, and keep him on his feet, while totally unconscious of her own exertion. Like a sleep walker was she in her deep abstraction.
She was in a deep forest again riding for life, and the veins in her arms were swelled out like cords, with straining to hold the horse up on his feet. She could no longer see the Eastern horizon, but it was growing lighter, and she knew that morning was dawning. She rode on, and on, and on, and at length came out of the forest in time to see the level rays of the rising sun striking redly across the fields. The windows of a farm-house flashing back the early light gleamed upon her vision, and at the same time her horse reeled and fell with her. “Good Lord!” “Are you hurt?” “Run here, Tim.” “Call your mist’ess, Peter.” “Where are you hurt, lady? can you tell us?”
Catherine awoke as out of a dream, to see many people around her all asking questions, and all attempting to extricate her from her saddle. She passed her hand across her brow, as was her wont when trying to dispel thought, and she looked at them in perplexity.
“My Lord, I’m afraid she’s very much hurt! Can you speak, lady? Where is your injury?” said the eldest man of the party, at length, lifting her in his arms.
“I—no—I’m not hurt—not the least; is the horse?”
“We don’t know, ma’am; I’m sure it’s a blessed thing you’re not killed yourself,” said another of the group, who, with several more, were trying to raise the pony upon his legs.
“Pray put me down upon my feet. Thank you. I’m not hurt. How far is Washington City from this place?” said Catherine, as she stood watching her horse.
“Good forty miles, lady. I don’t think he’s hurt, but poor fellow, he’s trembling with fatigue,” said the farmer, answering her, and then examining the horse, which was raised at last and stood trembling and blowing.
“Can he take me to Washington to-day?” asked Catherine, as she leaned against the fence for support.