On his left lay the dark river, with the snow-covered valley beyond it. On his right towered the stupendous precipice of the Iron Mountain, cleft down from summit to base, showing a ravine of wildly shattered rocks, bristling with clumps of stunted cedar trees, all dimly seen in the darkness of the winter night. “You don’t call that a pass, do you?” inquired David Lindsay, incredulously, peering out into the gloom. “Dat’s de road, young marster, sure’s yer born. Yer better look at it good, ’fore yer make up yer mind to try it.” David Lindsay drew in his head and spoke to his companion. “Look out and tell me if you still persist in going on,” he said. “I will look out just to please you, but I am bent on going on!” she replied, as she came forward and gazed up the ravine. “Well?” inquired young Lindsay. “Well, it looks threatening—very! But I said that I was bent to go on! Where the mules can go, I can go,” she persisted. “Drive on!” exclaimed the young man to the driver. Tubal did not “drive,” however. He slowly descended from his seat and came to the mules’ heads and led them on. It was well, perhaps, that the heavy wagon-cover concealed the terrors of the road that otherwise must have been discovered even through the darkness of the night, and daunted Gloria’s unconquered spirit. After a precipitous descent and the crossing of the stream, the young travelers in the wagon became conscious that the road was rising diagonally up the mountain side. When they had ascended some considerable distance, David Lindsay put his head out to peer through the shadows and survey the scene. He found that they were climbing a steep, narrow road on the face of the mountain, with a towering precipice on their right and a falling one on their left, and no room for any vehicle to pass that should chance to meet the wagon. He drew in his head and was careful to say nothing to his companion of what he had seen. A single start of the mules—a misstep—a balk—would be destruction to man and beast—for over and down the face of the precipice they would go. Higher and higher they climbed, and climbed for hours and hours. Then they began to descend—slowly and heavily for perhaps an hour longer. Finally old Tubal pulled up his mules, stood to recover his breath, and then came to the front opening in the cover of the wagon, and said: “Well, young marster, here we is at the gate lodge o’ Ghost Hall, or Debbil’s Den, whichebber yer likes for to call it. I’ll let yer out here, young marster, for I tell yer good, no money yer could pay down to me would ’duce me to pass t’rough dem dere gates ob hell!” “Come, come, Tubal, don’t use such strong language before a young lady,” said David Lindsay, as he descended from the wagon and helped his companion to alight. “I don’t use no stronger language than what de good book uses anyways. Help me to lift de trunk out, young marster.”