Her pride in the noble animal she rode overcame her fear
of the storm, which followed swifter than they fled. She looked
eagerly for a by-path leading to some farm-house, but the swift-settling
darkness of the summer night hid them from her eager glance, if
any there were. Half a mile from the ford, and the storm over-took
them--a wall of wind-driven rain, which dashed and roared about
them, drenching the rider to the skin in an instant. In a moment
the red-clay road became the bed of a murky torrent. The horse's
hoofs, which an instant before echoed on the hard-beaten track,
splashed now in the soft mud and threw the turbid drops over her
dripping habit and into her storm-washed face. A quarter of a mile
more, and the cold streams poured down her back and chilled her
slight frame to the marrow. Her hands were numb and could scarce
cling to the dripping reins. Tears came into her eyes despite
herself. Still the wild cloud-burst hurled its swift torrents of
icy rain upon them. She could scarcely see her horse's head, through
the gray, chilly storm-sheet.
"Whoa! whoa, Midnight!" she cried, in tremulous tones through her
chattering teeth and white, trembling lips. All her gay exultant
courage had been drenched and chilled out of her. She tried to
check his stride with a loose convulsive clutch at the reins as she
peered about with blinded eyes for a place of shelter.
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