“Now, then, Gyp!”
No second word was required. Away they sped down the road toward the east, the mild June air coming sweet and cool and fresh from the distant lake, laden with the odors of the woods and the fields. The stillness was intense, broken only by the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill, America’s one-phrased nightingale, or the still more weird and eerie note of a distant loon.
The houses along the road seemed deserted; no lights were shown anywhere. The wildest rumors were abroad concerning the slaughter of the day; and the population, scattered as it was, appeared to have retired into its shell. A spell of silence and darkness was over the land, and the rapid hoof beats of the horse sounded with startling distinctness on the harder portions of the road, emphasized by intervals of complete stillness, when the fetlocks sank in the sand and progress was more difficult for the plucky little animal. The only thrill of fear that Margaret felt on her night journey was when she entered the dark arch of an avenue of old forest trees that bordered the road, like a great, gloomy cathedral aisle, in the shadow of which anything might be hidden. Once the horse, with a jump of fear, started sideways and plunged ahead: Margaret caught her breath as she saw, or fancied she saw, several men stretched on the roadside, asleep or dead. Once in the open again she breathed more freely, and if it had not been for the jump of the horse, she would have accused her imagination of playing her a trick. Just as she had completely reassured herself a shadow moved from the fence to the middle of the road, and a sharp voice cried:
“Halt!”
The little horse, as if it knew the meaning of the word, planted its two front hoofs together, and slid along the ground for a moment, coming so quickly to a standstill that it was with some difficulty Margaret kept her seat. She saw in front of her a man holding a gun, evidently ready to fire if she attempted to disobey his command.
“Who are you, and where are you going?” he demanded.
“Oh, please let me pass!” pleaded Margaret with a tremor of fear in her voice. “I am going for a doctor—for my brother; he is badly wounded, and will perhaps die if I am delayed.”
The man laughed.
“Oho!” he cried, coming closer; “a woman, is it? and a young one, too, or I’m a heathen. Now, miss or missus, you get down. I’ll have to investigate this. The brother business won’t work with an old soldier. It’s your lover you’re riding for at this time of the night, or I’m no judge of the sex. Just slip down, my lady, and see if you don’t like me better than him; remember that all cats are black in the dark. Get down, I tell you.”
“If you are a soldier, you will let me go. My brother is badly wounded. I must get to the doctor.”