It had grown dark on Burnt Ridge.

Seen from below, the whole serrated crest that had glittered in the sunset as if its interstices were eaten by consuming fires, now, closed up its ranks of blackened shafts and became again harsh and sombre chevaux de frise against the sky.

A faint glow still lingered over the red valley road, as if it were its own reflection, rather than any light from beyond the darkened ridge.

Night was already creeping up out of remote canyons and along the furrowed flanks of the mountain, or settling on the nearer woods with the sound of home-coming and innumerable wings.

At a point where the road began to encroach upon the mountain-side in its slow winding ascent the darkness had become so real that a young girl cantering along the rising terrace found difficulty in guiding her horse, with eyes still dazzled by the sunset fires.
In spite of her precautions, the animal suddenly shied at some object in the obscured roadway, and nearly unseated her.