It was mostly down-hill going now, and the old white horse, knowing his stable and a manger full of oats was ahead of him, jogged rapidly along. It grew darker and darker, until, when they reached the top of the long slope of Tully hill, the last vestige of the slanting rays of the sun disappeared, and night had settled down. Calling cheerfully to the horse Adrian whistled a merry tune, and Roger joined in. Then they talked of various topics,--of the success of their trip, and what they would do to-morrow and next day. "That's the last house in the village of Tully," said Adrian, suddenly, indicating a lonely cabin. "Pete Hallenbeck lives there, but he can't be home to-night, or there'd be a light in the window. He's lived all alone since his wife died. After we pass this there's not a place where anybody lives for three miles, until we get to the edge of Cardiff." They went along for a mile or so, whistling and singing. Suddenly there was a jolt of the wagon, and Roger, who was sitting well toward the front of the seat, felt himself thrown forward with considerable force. Instinctively he stuck out his hands, and he felt them strike the broad haunches of the horse. Then, with a rattle and bang he kept on falling down until he had rolled out completely on the animal's back, and thence off to one side, into the soft grass along the road, where he lay stunned. He could hear, as in a dream, Adrian faintly shouting to him, and then something seemed to flash by him. There was a confused rattle and rumble that grew fainter and fainter, and the blackness became more intense. As if he was falling fast asleep he heard a voice calling: "Roger! Roger!" Then his eyes seemed to close tightly and he knew nothing more, as he lay in a huddled heap on the ground. CHAPTER VII LOST ON THE MOUNTAIN Roger seemed to be sinking down into some dark pit, falling lower and lower, until he appeared to strike against something and bound upward. A myriad of stars danced before his eyes, and, as he thus floated upward, he instinctively put up his hands to avoid contact with whatever might be above him. Then, with a suddenness that startled him, he came to his senses and found himself sitting at the side of the road, in the damp grass, while all around was pitchy blackness. He rubbed his eyes and the back of his head, and he was somewhat alarmed when his hand came away wet with blood from a slight wound. He tried to stand, but found he was too tottery on his legs. "Well," he managed to say, "there must have been an accident. I fell off the wagon, that's sure, and from the way my head feels I must have struck on a stone. Guess I cut myself too, but not badly," as he failed to find any serious wound on his scalp. He rubbed his hands in the damp grass and drew them out dripping with dew. He dabbled this water on his forehead and felt better.