Cruel As The Grave

It was one of those fearful passes so frequently to be found in the

Allegheny Mountains, and which I have described so often that I may be

excused from describing this. They went in, cautiously picking their way

through this deeper darkness, and trusting much to the instinct of their

mountain-trained steeds to take them safely through. An hour's slow,

careful, breathless riding brought them out upon the other side of the

mountain.

As they emerged from the dark labyrinth, Lyon Berners pulled up his

horse to breathe, and to look about him. Sybil followed his example.

Day was now dawning over the broken and precipitous country.

"Where is that chapel of which you speak? I have heard of it all my

life, but I have never seen it; and beyond the fact that it is on this

side of the mountain, and not far from the Black Torrent, I know nothing

about it," said Sybil.

"It is near the Black Torrent; almost under the bed of the cascade, in

fact. And we shall have to turn our horses' heads up stream again to

reach it," answered Lyon Berners.

"You know exactly where it is; you have been there, perhaps?" inquired

Sybil.

"I have seen it but once in my life. But I can easily find it. It is not

a frequented place of resort, dear Sybil. But that makes it all the

safer as a place of concealment for you," said Lyon Berners, as he

started his horse and rode on.

Sybil followed him closely.

Day was broadening over the mountains, and bringing out a thousand

prismatic colors from the autumn foliage of the trees, gemmed now with

the rain drops that had fallen during the night.

"It will be quite clear when the sun rises," said Lyon, encouragingly to

Sybil, as they went on.

He was right. Sunrise in the mountains is sometimes almost as sudden in

its effects as sunrise at sea. The eastern horizon had been ruddy for

sometime, but when the sun suddenly came up from behind the mountain,

the mist lifted itself, rolled into soft white wreaths and crowned the

summits, while all the land below broke out into an effulgence of light,

color, and glory.

But people who are flying for life do not pause to enjoy scenery, even

of the finest. Lyon and Sybil rode on towards the upper banks of the

Black River, hearing at every step the thunder of the Black Torrent, as

it leaped from rock to rock in its passionate descent to the valley.

At length they came to a narrow opening in the side of the mountain.

"Here is a path I know," said Mr. Berners, "though its entrance is so

concealed by undergrowth as to be almost impossible to discover."