clouds, else that ride over the sheep path by the cliff would have been our last journey in the flesh. Soon we reached the main road turning southward. It was a series of rough rocks and mudholes, and Dorothy and Dolcy shot forward upon it with the speed of the tempest, to undo, if possible, the evil which a dozen words, untimely spoken, had wrought. I urged my horse until his head was close by Dolcy's tail, and ever and anon could I hear the whispered cry,--"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, sweet Dolcy, good Dolcy; on, my pet, on." No word was spoken between Dorothy and me; but I could hear Dolcy panting with her mighty effort, and amid the noise of splashing water and the thud, thud, thud of our horses' hoofs came always back to me from Dorothy's lips the sad, sad cry, full of agony and longing,--"On, Dolcy, on; on Dolcy, on." The road we took led us over steep hills and down through dark, shadow-crowded ravines; but up hill, down hill, and on the level the terrible girl before me plunged forward with unabated headlong fury until I thought surely the flesh of horse, man, and woman could endure the strain not one moment longer. But the horses, the woman, and--though I say it who should not--the man were of God's best handiwork, and the cords of our lives did not snap. One thought, and only one, held possession of the girl, and the matter of her own life or death had no place in her mind. When we reached the cross-road where I was to leave her, we halted while I instructed Dorothy concerning the road she should follow from that point to Rutland, and directed her how to proceed when she should arrive at the castle gate. She eagerly listened for a moment or two, then grew impatient, and told me to hasten in my speech, since there was no time to lose. Then she fearlessly dashed away alone into the black night; and as I watched her fair form fade into the shadows, the haunting cry came faintly back to me,--"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy on," and I was sick at heart. I was loath to leave her thus in the inky gloom. The moon had sunk for the night, and the clouds had banked up without a rift against the hidden stars; but I could give her no further help, and my life would pay the forfeit should I accompany her. She had brought the evil upon herself. She was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain. She was fulfilling her destiny. She was doing that which she must do: nothing more, nothing less. She was filling her little niche in the universal moment. She was a part of the infinite kaleidoscope--a fate-charged, fate-moved, fragile piece of glass which might be crushed to atoms in the twinkling of an eye, in the sounding of a trump.