Look in whatever way I might, there was nothing but terror staring me in the face. How many miles I was from any human habitation, I did not dare to think; but indeed it mattered little; I could not, benumbed and aching as I was, have walked half a mile, even with the certainty of help before me; and I doubted whether, if the horse could have been coaxed over the cruel obstacle that stopped her course, I could have mounted her again. I was bound, helpless, hopeless! My exaggerated fancy refused all hope, and seized all that was frightful, and held up before me the dread that, unless some unforeseen help should come, I should perish during the slow waning of the awful night that had but just begun. I saw life and youth, "And time and hope behind me cast," and one black shadow creeping toward me, slowly, but with unswerving tread; silently, but with intensest gaze, freezing me with horror. And with a sort of mockery, the words that had seemed so soothing and peaceful, when, life was sure and unthreatened, rang in my ears: "Death comes to set thee free-- O meet him cheerily As thy true friend." Starting to my feet, I cried aloud, as if stung with sudden pain: "No, no! not such death as this; I cannot! Oh, is there no help!" And calling passionately Mr. Rutledge's name, I listened as if it were impossible that I could call on him in vain. But no voice nor answer came; the swaying branches moaned loudly as the angry wind swept through them; the swollen stream rushed by with a mournful sound; the dead leaves fluttered in the fitful blast: this was my answer--this was all the help my appeals would gain. With a cry of anguish, I cast myself down upon the earth, and sent to heaven such a prayer as only despair and mortal terror can wring from the heart. Not as people pray at home, morning and evening, with Death at worst a distant enemy, and Terror and Temptation just so many words; not as people pray from duty, or from habit, or out of respect to religion, I prayed then. Not as I had often asked for mercy, Sunday after Sunday, in the Litany, and thought I was in earnest, did I ask for it now; but with such agony of earnestness, such wild entreaty, as those ten men in the Samaritan village put into their prayer for mercy; a De Profundis that came from the lowest depths of abasement and despair. It was a fearful struggle, but it passed over, and left me calmer.