Leaving Christie in a hotel, Willard went to seek for a fast horse to take them to town; but, to his dismay, he found that every vehicle in the village was already engaged. Nearly insane with wild impatience, he offered enormous sums for a horse; but as the stern "Impossible!" rose against all his demands, he was forced to return to the hotel in a state bordering on frenzy, and offer the farmer with whom they had come the price of a dozen horses if he would only consent to surrender the wagon to him and let him drive.
Carried away by the young man's distracted words and manner, he at last consented; and causing Christie to be wrapped up in a large, warm shawl to protect her from the night air, he lifted her into the wagon, took his seat beside her, and dashed off at a break-neck pace.
Not a word was spoken, as Willard, urging the animal to its utmost speed, almost flew over the ground. The few remaining hours of daylight passed, and night fell dark and starless. On, still on, he urged the reeking, foaming, panting beast. They were still far from Westport—scarcely more than half way—and the short night would soon be gone. Each time the tired animal would halt, panting for a moment, the vision of Sibyl, in her prison-cell waiting for death, would rise before him, until, nearly mad with impatience, he would mercilessly lash the poor brute on to greater speed.
But, just as he was beginning to hope that the rate at which they were going would, in two or three hours, bring them to Westport, the animal, completely exhausted, dropped to the ground, unable to proceed another step.
With a furious imprecation, Willard sprang out and strove to assist him to his feet, but in vain. The horse was totally unable even to rise.
For one moment Willard leaned against the wagon, while a feeling of utter despair filled his heart. The distance from Westport—the few intervening hours—the impossibility of procuring another horse—the awful peril of Sibyl, struck a chill, like that of death to his heart.
"All is lost, Christie—all is lost!" he said, in a voice so altered that she scarcely knew it. "The horse is driven to death, and in ten short hours Sibyl dies!"
"Heaven help us!" said Christie, wringing her pale hands. "Willard, we must walk."
"Walk!" he repeated, bitterly. "Before the end of the first mile your fate would be similar to his." And he touched the animal with his foot.
"Try me—try me!" said Christie, springing from her seat. "Heaven will give me strength in this hour. Oh, Willard, hasten!"