"Go on, Cudjo! go on!" Penn commanded.
The terrified black crouched and gibbered, but would not stir. Then straightway a sharp clatter, as of iron hoofs flying at a furious gallop, resounded along the mountain-side. By a simultaneous impulse the little party huddled together, and turned their faces towards the fire, and saw coming down towards them a horse with the speed of the wind.
"Stand close!" said Penn; and he threw himself before Virginia, to shield her, shouting and swinging his hat to frighten the animal from his course.
"Stackridge's hoss!" exclaimed Cudjo, recovering from his fright, leaping up, and flinging abroad his long arms in the air. "Wiv some poor debil onter him's back!"
It was so. The little group stood motionless, chilled with horror. The beast came thundering on, with lips of terror parted, nostrils wide and snorting, mane and tail flying in the wild air, hoofs striking fire from the rocks. A human being—a man—was lying close to his neck, and clinging fast: the face hidden by the tossing and streaming mane: a fearful ride! the mystery surrounding him, and the awful glare and smoke, enhancing the horror of it.
Approaching the group on the ledge, the animal veered, and shot past them like a thunderbolt; clearing rocks, hollows, bushes, with incredible bounds; nearing the ravine, but halting not; dashing into the thickets there, missing suddenly the ground beneath his feet, striking only the air and yielding boughs with frantic hoofs; then plunging down with a dull, reverberant crash,—horse and unknown rider rolling together over rocks and spiked limbs to the bottom of the ravine.
Then all was still again: it had passed like a vision of fear.