And she did not know that the pony's mane
was wet with her tears. There was no sound of weeping or faltering in
the tone with which she urged him on. That rang clear and strong with
the invincible courage and strength which love's miracle gives to the
most timid and the weakest.
She was not holding to the saddle, but was clinging to it as
unconsciously as the mist clung to her skirts. Her long black hair,
fallen away from its fastenings, streamed in the wind; but she gave it
no heed except to toss it out of her eyes so that she might see the
pony's head, and try to look beyond toward Anvil Rock. How far off it
still seemed! Would she never reach it? The night seemed to be growing
darker, and she could not make out the mass glooming through the
darkness as she had seen it at first. But she was not afraid of the
growing blackness. This timid, gentle girl, who had hitherto been afraid
of her own shadow, was now suddenly lost to all sense of fear. She
thought nothing of the wild darkness into which she was thus flying
blindly and alone. She had forgotten the terror of the time, and the
dangers of the wilderness.
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