Guy Rivers: A Tale of GeorgiaSimms, William Gilmore
History
Guy Rivers: A Tale of Georgia
Simms, William Gilmore
Georgia -- History -- 1775-1865 -- Fiction; Gold mines and mining -- Fiction
Utterly unconscious of the melancholy circumstance which had diverted
his enemies from the pursuit of himself, he had followed studiously the
parting directions of the young maiden, to whose noble feeling and
fearless courage he was indebted for his present safety; and taken the
almost _blind_ path which she had hastily described to him. On this
route he had for some time gone, with a motion not extravagantly free,
but sufficiently so, having the start, and with the several delays to
which his pursuers had been subjected, to have escaped the danger--while
the vigor of his steed lasted--even had they fallen on the proper route.
He had proceeded in this way for several miles, when, at length, he came
upon a place whence several roads diverged into opposite sections of the
country. Ignorant of the localities, he reined in his horse, and
deliberated with himself for a few moments as to the path he should
pursue. While thus engaged, a broad glare of flame suddenly illumined
the woods on his left hand, followed with the shrieks, equally sudden,
seemingly of a woman.
There was no hesitation in the action of the youth. With unscrupulous
and fearless precipitation, he gave his horse the necessary direction,
and with a smart application of the rowel, plunged down the narrow path
toward the spot from whence the alarm had arisen. As he approached, the
light grew more intense, and he at length discovered a little
cottage-like dwelling, completely embowered in thick foliage, through
the crevices of which the flame proceeded, revealing the cause of
terror, and illuminating for some distance the dense woods around. The
shrieks still continued; and throwing himself from his horse, Ralph
darted forward, and with a single and sudden application of his foot,
struck the door from its hinges, and entered the dwelling just in time
to save its inmates from the worst of all kinds of death.
The apartment was in a light blaze--the drapery of a couch which stood
in one corner partially consumed, and, at the first glance, the whole
prospect afforded but little hope of a successful struggle with the
conflagration. There was no time to be lost, yet the scene was enough to
have paralyzed the nerves of the most heroic action.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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