After a short but determined breasting of the storm, during which my breath had nearly failed me, she suddenly stopped.
"'Do you know,' she exclaimed in a low impressive tone, 'that we are on the verge of a steep and dreadful precipice?
It runs along here for a quarter of a mile and it is not an uncommon thing for a horse and rider to be dashed over it in a night like this.' "There was something in her manner that awakened a chill in my veins almost as if she had pointed out some dreadful doom which I had unwittingly escaped.
"'This is, then, a dangerous road,' I murmured.
"'Very,' was her hurried and almost incoherent reply.
"How far we travelled through the mud and tangled grasses of that horrible road I do not know.

It seemed a long distance; it was probably not more than three quarters of a mile.

At last she paused with a short 'Here we are;' and looking up, I saw that we were in front of a small unlighted cottage.
"No refuge ever appeared more welcome to a pair of sinking wanderers I am sure.

Wet to the skin, bedrabbled with mud, exhausted with breasting the gale, we stood for a moment under the porch to regain our breath, then with her characteristic energy she lifted the knocker and struck a smart blow on the door.
"'We will find shelter here,' said she.
"She was not mistaken.

In a few moments we were standing once more before a comfortable fire hastily built by the worthy couple whose slumbers we had thus interrupted.