“I will remember and pray for General Ross while I live,” said Catherine. And then she put whip to her horse, and rode away, upheld by a wonderful energy.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE GOAL.
Thro’ waves, thro’ storms and clouds
He gently clears thy way,
Trust thou his grace—so shall the night
Soon end in joyous day.—Moravian.
Incalculable is the power of the spirit over the flesh. In the intense absorption of her soul by one hope, Catherine was carried above all consciousness of the excessive exertion, and all sense of the extreme fatigue that was oppressing and harassing her bodily powers almost to dissolution. But a watchful Providence, that had already thrice arrested her dreadful journey, now a fourth time interposed to compel her to rest. She had parted with her escort, when past the British outposts, beyond Bladensburg. And by the time she had reached Long Old Fields, the storm, that had been threatening all the evening, burst suddenly, with terrible violence, driving her for shelter into a farm-house. And again, wondering and compassionate hosts persuaded her to lie down and repose, and once more, as soon as her weary head dropped upon the pillow, deep sleep, like an irresistible mandate of the All-Merciful, fell upon her, and, despite of pain of body and anguish of mind, she slept soundly for several hours;—slept, as the prisoner sleeps the night before execution;—slept, as the martyr sleeps in the intervals of torture upon the rack;—slept, while the tempest raged with awful fury;—while the rain fell in torrents, and the wind rushed through the forest, carrying destruction on its wings; while gigantic trees were twisted off, or torn up by the roots, and great rivers were swelled to floods;—she slept the deep, dreamless sleep “God giveth His beloved.” Probably to this Providential sleep she owed the preservation of her life, for the spirit that can goad the flesh to exertion unto death, cannot save it from dissolution.
When she awoke, the storm had passed, and the stars were shining dimly in the early dawn of day. She started up, remorseful and affrighted to find she had slept so long, and to recollect that her journey was not half over. It was now four o’clock, and she had yet nearly thirty miles to ride before eight, or all was lost! Her pitying hosts tried to persuade her to wait and partake of their early breakfast, which, they said, would be ready in half an hour; but finding her bent upon setting forward, they hastily got some refreshment together, and permitted her to mount her horse and depart. But she had not proceeded many yards, before she found that the motion of her steed gave her great pain—pain so sharp, as to force itself to be felt through all her intense mental abstraction. She checked her horse’s trot, and put him into a gallop, whose smooth, wavy motion, somewhat relieved her distress.
The morning was sparklingly brilliant after the storm: the forest trees and the grass were spangled by the rain-drops, and the slanting rays of the rising run striking deep into the foliage, flecked all its green leaves with golden light. Her horse was fresh, his blood was up, and on they sped like an arrow through the woods.
Suddenly she stopped and reeled backwards—that sharp pain again; it pierced her side and chest like a sword; it caught away her breath, and caused the drops of perspiration to burst from her pale forehead. But not for pain, or even for the fear of death, must she pause. She might perish, but her purpose must first be accomplished, if possible.