Here, the road being both steep and rugged, our speed
abated. The precipitous banks shut out the sunlight,
except at noon, and the road through this defile,
overhung by towering trees and rocks, was even now
in solemn shadow. The cart-road leading down to
Redman’s Dell, and passing the mills near Redman’s
Farm, diverges from the footpath with which we are
so well acquainted, near that perpendicular block of
stone which stands a little above the steps which
the footpath here descends.
MARK WYLDER’S HAND.
Just at the darkest point of the road, a little above
the rude column which I have mentioned, Lake’s
horse, a young one, shied, stopped short, recoiling
on its haunches, and snorted fiercely into the air.
At the same time, the two dogs which had accompanied
us began to bark furiously beneath in the ravine.
The tall form of Uncle Lorne was leaning against a
tree at the edge of the ravine, with his left hand
extended towards us, and his right pointing down the
precipice. Perhaps it was this odd apparition
that startled Lake’s horse.
‘I told you he was coming up—lend
him a hand,’ yelled Uncle Lorne, in great excitement.
No one at such a moment minded his maunderings:
but many people afterwards thought that the crazed
old man, in one of his night-rambles, had seen that
which, till now, no one had imagined; and that Captain
Lake himself, whose dislike of him was hardly disguised,
suspected him, at times of that alarming knowledge.
Lake plunged the spurs into his beast, which reared
so straight that she toppled backward toward the edge
of the ravine.
‘Strike her on the head; jump off,’ shouted
Wealdon.
But he did neither.
‘D— it! put her head down; lean forward,’
bellowed Wealdon again.
But it would not do. With a crash among briars,
and a heavy thump from beneath that shook the earth,
the mare and her rider went over. A shout of
horror broke from us all; and Jekyl, watching the catastrophe,
was very near pulling our horse over the edge, and
launching us all together, like the captain, into
the defile.
In a moment more we were all on the ground, and scrambling
down the side of the ravine, among rocks, boughs,
brambles, and ferns, in the deep shadows of the gorge,
the dogs still yelling furiously from below.
‘Here he is,’ cried Jekyl. ’How
are you, Lake? Much hurt, old boy? By Jove,
he’s killed, I think.’
Lake groaned.
He lay about twelve feet below the edge. The
mare, now lying near the bottom of the gorge, had,
I believe, fallen upon him, and then tumbled over.
Strange to say, Lake was conscious, and in a few seconds,
he said, in reply to the horrified questions of his
friend—
‘I’m all smashed. Don’t
move me;’ and, in a minute more—’Don’t
mind that d—d brute; she’s killed.
Let her lie.’
