It was plain to her that the horses were not running
away, for the man had been lashing them furiously. There was but one
conclusion: he was deliberately taking her farther into the mountain
fastnesses, his purpose known only to himself. A hundred terrors
presented themselves to her as she lay huddled against the side of the
coach, her eyes closed tightly, her tender body tossed furiously about
with the sway of the vehicle. There was the fundamental fear that she
would be dashed to death down the side of the mountain, but apart from
this her quick brain was evolving all sorts of possible endings--none
short of absolute disaster.
Even as she prayed that something might intervene to check the mad rush
and to deliver her from the horrors of the moment, the raucous voice of
the driver was heard calling to his horses and the pace became
slower. The awful rocking and the jolting grew less severe, the clatter
resolved itself into a broken rumble, and then the coach stopped with a
mighty lurch.
Dragging herself from the corner, poor Beverly Calhoun, no longer a
disdainful heroine, gazed piteously out into the shadows, expecting the
murderous blade of the driver to meet her as she did so. Pauloff had
swung from the box of the coach and was peering first into the woodland
below and then upon the rocks to the left. He wore the expression of a
man trapped and seeking means of escape.
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