"H'any h'orders, your Lordship?"
"Get out!"
When they finally arrived it was pitch black night, no moon nor stars. The rude little station was lit by torches flaming in the mist and wind. Beyond, impenetrable darkness. A storm was brewing over the mountains. Haller's face, as he greeted the travellers with one of his contortions, looked weird in the torchlight. They followed him out to the wagon, in which they sank with a sigh of relief. The trip, with the delay, had been tedious. Haller whipped the ponies up briskly. The wagon careered recklessly from side to side as they drove, and the wind drove the mist into their faces.
"I suppose you know your road, my good man?" said Lord Stafford.
"There's no risk of falling over a precipice or anything of that kind, is there? It's so confoundedly black."
Haller chuckled. "Them ponies know the're way—the've been bred up in these parts. I'd trust them sooner'n myself."
"Indeed!" said Lord Canning.
"Is this our destination?" asked Lord Stafford, as they stopped at the landing.
"Oh, we ain't no ways near thar yet," said Haller, with another chuckle. He raised a lantern and showed them "The Indiana" waiting at the dock, the lake lapping against her sides.
"Must we get in that?" said Stafford, peering out into the darkness of the lake.