rider and horse as one, shoot out from the gap as from a bow. Through the white, fetlock-deep sand, over the stony ridge, the fierce rush carries them—down the sloping tide sands—into the very wave. Whoa, Robert, whoa! Gently—gently! Brace your brave feet in the dripping sands; swerve to the right, to the east.
Away to the east there—a mile away—along the lonely shore, you see Gull Reef, stretching out from the land. At the farther end, partially hidden behind that highest rock, gleaming white in the moon's white light, what do you see?A sail! A sail! What is it? What does it mean? Kit knows. It means life and hope—hope yet! Her heart leaps up. There is hope, there is hope, it cries. Thank God! Thank God!
But they must not stay now or spare. On, again, on. Forward, brave Robert; speed, speed! Stride as you never strode, gallop with fire, double and spring with might. For life, for life! Freely and wild he runs. Pulse and heart of fire, nostril and flank aflame, fibre and nerve of steel, power of steam! Eyes wide and shot with blood, each breath a fiery gasp, each spring the leap of a wild chamois!
Oh, the mad rush of that ride for life! Will she ever forget the hurling flight between sea and shore, the gale on her cheek, the hurricane in her ears?
A mile! a mile! Between sea and shore, on the firm tide-sands. And still the pale horse runs before with his ghastly skeleton rider. Faster, Kit, faster yet! Pray God they be not too late! Summer breezes, flee from before, waft them on from behind! Shelving sands, clog not the steed's brave feet; give him smooth footing, and firm! Tide-ripples, wash up and lave his hot hoofs! Hasten them, earth and air—help them, for life's sweet sake!
On they dash, hoofs clattering like hail. Kit's eyes are on the sail; she sees only that. The moonlight lies calm and white. The summer waters murmur on the sliding sands. No life on that lonely shore, save only the one mad flight. High banks leap up on the right, a hundred feet sheer. Beyond, in the wood, Kit hears the whippoorwill's mournful song, the owl's uncanny cry. The sound makes her shudder—so weird, so wild! it sounds like an omen of death. Half of the mile is behind. The reef draws nearer — nearer every stride. The boat swings slowly round the high rock into sight; the sail flaps over. Kit sees a human form. A man lies forward on the little deck, leaning over the side, gazing intently down through the shimmering deeps. She shudders, but hopes. That is not the action of a sane man, but it is a posture of life, not of death.
Quick, Robert, quick! Faster, faster! The ledge draws on. The end is near. The horse writhes forward to a wilder pace. Every nerve charged, every cord, every fibre strung, takes the last quarter-mile with a maddened rush, goes home with the swoop of a hawk. Straight for the ledge they stride. 'Ware! 'ware! They will dash on the rocks—but, no. She sees it all. She guides him with a touch—just in time. He swerves to the left, straight into the wave, deep, deep, comes to a halt with a staggering plunge. She is flung headlong into the water by the shock, but rises instantly, dashes the brine from her eyes, leaps up on the nearest rock.
Robert stands still, breast deep, looking after her, panting terribly, trembling like a palsied hand. Good Robert, your work is done, but the end is not yet. The pale horse stays not for rock or wave; land and sea are alike to him! Kit must finish the race on foot, and over a breakneck path—you can help her no more, brave horse.
