She nodded. There was little time now to spare. They knew the road well enough to remember the clump of oaks just ahead of them. There was a sudden turn there, to avoid a ledge where the workmen had blasted for the bridge last summer.
Florence crouched in the bottom of the sleigh, set her teeth hard, and, with both hands buried in the long fur, waited.
The ledge came in sight, ugly and black.
“Now!”
For an instant it seemed as if the slender wrists would break, or that she must be drawn over the dasher and thrown under the horse’s hoofs. She never thought of letting go her hold. All her New England heroism came to her aid, and the robe did not gain an inch.
Gradually the tired horse felt the heavy drag, aided by a slight ascent in the road. His speed slackened; the wild run became a clumsy gallop,—slower,—slower. Then came the soothing tones of his driver, and he turned his ears back to listen. In another moment Wesley was out of the sleigh and at his head. The danger was over.
The full moon was now looking down from the eastern sky, and pouring its flood of dreamy light over the cruel ledges.
Wesley led the trembling horse, now wholly subdued, to an oak beside the road, and fastened him securely enough this time. Then he went back to the sleigh. He had not spoken before.