"Oh, stop!" yelled the girl, "or I shall——"
"Oh, no, you—won't. You just hold—your tongue."
The horses shied, and the wagon skidded. Were they held up?
"Right there, Sam," ordered the driver. "Easy—steady, Ned. Pull over here."
The wagons moved forward again, and the women felt that the possible danger of discovery had passed.
"Keep quiet in there," called a rough voice from the seat. "These woods are thick with trailers."
For some time no one within the van spoke. Then Cora turned, and the woman wearing the thick hood clapped something over Cora's nose.
"Oh, don't! She has had enough. Let her at least live," begged the younger woman, actually fanning Cora's white face with her own soiled handkerchief.
The night seemed blacker and darker at each turn. Shouts from the searchers occasionally reached the ears of those within the wagon, and once Mr. Rand on his donkey might have seen them but for the trickery of the driver, who pulled his horses into some shadowy bushes and waited for the searchers to pass.
The young gypsy woman peered down into Cora's face.