Down would scarcely have been ruffled by Fortner's light touch upon the trigger.
Fire flamed from the rifle's muzzle.
The Colonel's haughty eyes became sterner than ever. The holster was torn as he wrenched the revolver out. A clutch at the mane, and he fell forward on the wet brown leaves—dead!
Dumb amazement filled the horse's great eyes; he stretched out his neck and smelled his lifeless master inquiringly.
A shot from Harry's musket, fifty from the astounded Rebels, and the two Unionists sped away unhurt into the cover of the dark cedars.
Chapter XI. Through the Mountains and the Night.
God sits upon the Throne of Kings,
And Judges unto judgement brings:
Why then so long
Maintain your wrong,
And favor lawlesss things?
Defend the poor, the fatherless;
Their crying injuries redress:
And vindicate
The desolate,
Whom wicked men oppress.
—George Sandy's Paraphrase of Psalm XXXII.
Fortner and Glen were soon so far away from the Ford that the only reminder of its neighborhood were occasional glimpses, caught through rifts in he forest, of the lofty slope of Rockcastle Mountain, now outlined in the gathering darkness by twinkling fires, which increased in number, and climbed higher towards the clouds as fast as the fugitives succeeded in struggling across the river.
“That's a wonderful sight,” said Harry, as they paused on a summit to rest and catch breath. “It reminds me of some of the war scenes in Scott, or the Iliad.”