"You've three hours, but its deed against the storm you'll ride."
"I'll do it or die," cried Bunko.
And away towards the woods he flew, hardly visible in the hurricane mist that obscured the dawn of this awful day.
He hurried on, but aye as the gusts gathered extra force he waited for the lull, then once more struck his heels against the sides of his willing steed.
Poor honest Bunko, he was Scotch to the back bone; and as he tore along he kept up his courage with verses from the Bible, and snatches from the poems of Burns.
"Go on, good mare!" he cried. "It's life or death, my lassie! Clothe your neck wi' thunder, as Job says, and rejoice in your strength.
"'But sich a nicht he took the road in
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twould blawn its last,
The rattlin' hail roared on the blast.
Near and more near the thunders roll,
The lightnings flashed from pole to pole.'"
At long last he is near the town, in sight even of the harbour. He can even see the white steam and the smoke of the Sandpiper. Her commander was one of those daring men whom no wind off a shore would keep in harbour if he once made up his mind to sail.
Nearer and nearer comes Bunko; but, alas! the mare's strength gives out, she staggers and falls. Bunko is on his feet in a moment, and flying by himself now towards the harbour steps.
The last boat has just returned.