“Not here. Yonder it is blowing a hurricane, and this way too—direct. By heavens! it is nearing us rapidly! I doubt if we shall be able to clear the burnt track.”
“What is to be done?” exclaimed the planter, terrified by the announcement.
“Are your mules doing their best?”
“They are: they could not be driven faster.”
“I fear we shall be too late, then!”
As the speaker gave utterance to this gloomy conjecture, he reined round once more; and sate regarding the cloud columns—as if calculating the rate at which they were advancing.
The lines, contracting around his lips, told of something more than dissatisfaction.
“Yes: too late!” he exclaimed, suddenly terminating his scrutiny. “They are moving faster than we—far faster. There is no hope of our escaping them!”
“Good God, sir! is the danger so great? Can we do nothing to avoid it?”
The stranger did not make immediate reply. For some seconds he remained silent, as if reflecting—his glance no longer turned towards the sky, but wandering among the waggons.