his steed.  He swore heartily, seized the bridle and dragged the horse forward.  The road was indescribable.  Mud, slush and icy water took him to the knee at every step; but he plugged manfully forward, dragging the protesting horse after him.  So for an hour, across the barren rise of land to the southward, after which he remounted and rode at the best speed he could command until the horse stumbled again and again unseated him.  Undaunted, Mr. Darling took his turn on foot again, dragging the puffing beast along at his muddy heels.  The way was nothing but a muddy track across a desolate barren.  It curved steadily to the left and at last brought him in sight of the irregular coast and the gray sea.  By noon he had reached a miserable, dirty shebeen; and here he dried himself, sheltered and fed his horse and ate from his own provisions.  He rested there for two hours (for his horse’s sake rather than his own), and then mounted, threw a couple of shillings to the keeper of the house and continued on his way.  He studied the coast-line intently as he floundered along.  He saw that most of the shore ice had melted or broken away from the land-wash.  Plans for the rescue of Flora Lockhart were taking shape in his mind.  Beyond a doubt the rescue would have to be made by water; and so he studied every sheltered haven and surf-footed cape as he worked his heroic way southward, now plunging in his precarious saddle, now plunging with his own legs in the mire.

The figure of another wayfarer came in sight early in the afternoon.  The stranger was on foot.  He wore a red blanket round his shoulders and carried a long gun of ancient pattern.  He was a big fellow with a swarthy face and bad eyes, and his ears were adorned with gold rings.  Mr. Darling did not relish the fellow’s looks, and so passed him without halting, alert, with his right hand on the butt of a pistol in his pocket.  This picturesque ruffian was heading northward.  After passing Mr. Darling he turned and glanced back several times, his interest doubtless attracted by the respectability of the other’s appearance and the bulging saddle-bags.  But he did not stop.  Neither did he return.  The young man with the old horse looked to him like a fighter—­and even if the saddle-bags were stuffed with gold they would prove but a flea bite to the stake which he had in mind.

Mr. Darling and his encumbering steed reached Raggedy Cove about an hour after sunset.  Mr. Darling was in good heart and, thanks to fine lungs and muscles, and a flawless constitution, was as fit in body as spirit.  He found a bed for himself and a stable for the horse, and an old man full of information concerning the quickest and easiest way to get to Witless Bay.  This was by water, said the old man.  His own son George was going south along the coast next morning, in a bully.  So Darling boarded the bully next morning, leaving his horse with the old man.  George, the navigator of the bully, was an inquisitive young man; but his eyes were steady