“Well, there’s a river of some sort in the valley—yes, and a bridge over it.”
“We’ll get there, all right.”
“That’s true, but beyond is a level stretch where they can overhaul us.”
“Wait. Once we cross, the ladies will ride on.”
“Ah! then we stop.”
“Thermopylæ again, Morgan. We’ll hold the bridge, as Leonidas and his Spartans held the pass. I reckon this tumultuous nation will have the novelty of four presidents in twenty-four hours.”
“Four?”
“I’ve made up my mind to shoot Toreado the first thing. He deserves it, the old fool! Some men never know which side of their bread is buttered. Well, here we are.”
The bridge was before us, and as we wearily galloped over, I hastily called to Hildegarde, telling her to keep straight on for a mile or so, and that we would surely come up.
She gave me one look over her shoulder, so full of love and misery that it brought a lump into my throat; but she knew what obedience meant, and rode straight on.