At that moment they were passing through a belt of woods where the brightness of the sky and the faint light of the rising moon made the shadows cower thick and black beside every log and snowy mound.
Whether the young horse had spied one of these stretching into the road, or she had jarred the reins by her involuntary movement, Florence never knew. It happened like a lightning-stroke,—the sudden quiver of the colt from head to foot, and at the same instant the sharp word of command from Wesley, then the plunge ahead. In one terrified glance at the half-maddened animal she saw a fragment of leather hanging from the foam-covered bit. The rein had parted under the strain, and the remnant lay loose and worse than useless in the driver’s hand.
The horse was bounding wildly along the icy road, with the light sleigh swaying from side to side, half the time upon one runner, threatening every moment to overturn.
“Florence, will you do what I say?”
“Yes.”
She did not mind the name. Were they not together in the shadow of death? Oh, that awful whirl of hoof-beats! the utter helplessness of it all; the mockery of the cushioned seats and warm wraps!
But there was no time for thought. Wesley was taking the heavy buffalo-robe and turning it with quick, skillful hands, as she had seen him turn a paper at home when he was reading aloud to them all in the quiet evenings around the old brick fireplace. His calmness gave her strength.
“Take this corner,” he said. “Hold it with the fur up. Now let the rest of the robe fall slowly over the dasher in front of the whiffletree. When I give the word, lower the whole instantly, as I do, keeping your hold of the upper corner, so that the lower part will clog the runners. Do you understand?”