When they came to the turn, they could see, just beyond the mass of ruin; the great wagon, three wheels in the air,--one rolled away into the ditch; the broken freight, flung all across the road, and lying piled about the wagon. One horse was dead,--buried underneath. Another lay motionless, making horrid moans. The teamster was freeing the third--the leader, which stood safe--from chains and harness. Leading him, the man came up with Rodney and Sylvie, as they turned into the side road. "I knew you were just ahead, when it happened. I thought you were gone for certain." "There was a Mercy over us all!" said Sylvie, with sweet, tremulous intenseness. The rough man lifted his hand to his bare head. Rodney clasped tighter the little fingers that lay within his own. "What did happen?" he asked. "The brake-rod broke; the pole-strap gave way; it was all in a heap in a minute. I saw it was no use; I had to jump. And then I thought of you. I'm glad you saw me, sir. You know I was sober." "I know you were sober, and managing most skillfully. I had been saying that." "Thank you, sir. It's an awful job." "Hark!" said Sylvie. "There's the man with the trunks." "I forgot all about him," said Rodney. "That's a fact," said the teamster. "Turn down here, to let him by. Hallo!" "Hallo! Come to grief?" "We just have, then. Go ahead, will you, and bring back--_something to shoot with_," he added, in a lower tone, and coming close,--remembering Sylvie. "I had a crow-bar, but it's lost in the jumble. I'll stay here, now." The wagon drove by, rapidly. The man led his horse down by the wall, to wait there. Sylvie and Rodney, hand in hand, walked on. Sylvie shivered with the horrible excitement; her teeth chattered; a nervous trembling was taking hold of her. Rodney put his arm round her again. "Don't tremble, dear," he said. "O, Rodney! What were we kept alive for?" "For each other," whispered Rodney. CHAPTER XXXV. HILL-HOPE. They were sitting together, the next day, on the rock below the cascade, in the warm sunshine. Aunt Euphrasia knew all about it; Aunt Euphrasia had let them go down there together. She was as content as Rodney in the thing that could not now be helped. "I've broken my promise," said Rodney to Sylvie. "I agreed with my father that I wouldn't be engaged for two years." "Why, we aren't engaged,--yet,--are we?" asked Sylvie, with bewitching surprise. "I don't know," said Rodney, his old, merry, mischievous twinkle coming in the corners of his eyes, as he flashed them up at her. "I think we've got the refusal of each other!" "Well. We'll keep it so. We'll wait. You shall not break any promise for me," said Sylvie, still sweetly obtuse. "I'm satisfied with that way of looking at it," said Rodney, laughing out. "Unless--you mean to be as cunning about everything else, Sylvie. In that case, I don't know; I'm afraid you'd be dangerous."