The pony fell back almost to his haunches before the boy could draw the reins. The two horses recoiled with equal suddenness and violence. An unexpected encounter with the unknown in the darkness filled even the dumb brutes with alarm, and brute and human alike had reason to be alarmed; for this time and this place—stamped in blood on history—marked the very height and centre of the reign of terror on the Wilderness Road.

The boy strained his terrified gaze through the dark, but he could see nothing except those vague, black forms of two horsemen, looming large and threatening against the lurid glow of the furnace fires which faintly lit the forest. The men and their horses looked like monstrous creatures, half human and half beast, both as silent and motionless as himself. He felt that they also were listening and watching in tense waiting as he waited and watched, hearing only the frightened panting of the horses and the faint rustle of the sable leaves overhead. And so all held for an instant, which seemed endless, till a sudden gust of wind swung the boughs and sent the glare of the furnace flames far and high through the forest. The vivid flash came and went like lightning, but it lasted long enough for the boy to recognize one of the black shapes.

"Father!" he cried. "Father Orin!"

"Bless my soul—it's young David!" exclaimed the priest.

There was as much relief in his tone as in the boy's, and he turned hastily to the horseman at his side.

"Doctor, this is a young friend of mine—a member of Judge Knox's family. You have heard of the judge. And, David, this is Doctor Colbert. You, no doubt, have heard of him."

David murmured something. He had never before been introduced to any one; and had never before been so acutely conscious that he had no surname. The doctor sent his horse forward, coming close to the pony's side. He held out his hand—as David felt rather than saw—and he took the boy's hand in a warm, kind clasp. It was the first time that a man had given David his hand as one frank, earnest, fearless man gives it to another—but never to a woman, and rarely to a boy. David did not know what it was that he felt as their hands met in the darkness, but he knew that the touch was like balm to his bruised pride, which had been aching so sorely throughout the lonely ride. Father Orin now rode nearer on the other side, and although no more than the dimmest outline of any object could be seen, the boy saw that the priest continued to turn his head and cast backward glances into the dark forest. When he spoke, it was in a low tone, strangely guarded and serious for him, who was always as outspoken and light-hearted as though his hard life of toil and self-sacrifice had been the most thoughtless and happiest play.

"But how does it happen that you are here, my son?" he asked, almost in a whisper. "I can't understand the judge's allowing it. Can it be possible that he has sent you—on business? Why—! A man isn't safe on this part of the Wilderness Road at night, and hardly at midday, alone. For a child like you—"

There it was again, like a blow on a bruise! The boy instantly sat higher in the saddle, trying to look as tall as he could, and forgetting that no one could see. And replying hastily in his deepest, most manly voice, he said scornfully, that there was nothing to be afraid of with his rifle across the saddle-bow, declaring proudly that he knew how to deal with wild beasts, should any cross his path. As for the Indians, he scoffed at the idea; there were none in that country, and never had been any thereabouts, except as they came and went over the Shawnee Crossing.

"But you are mistaken; the Meek boys—James and Charles—were killed only a few weeks ago, just across the river," said the priest. "And they were better able to take care of themselves than you are, my child. Come, you must turn back with us. We cannot go with you, and we must not allow you to go on alone."

Saying this, Father Orin turned his horse and moved forward. David made no movement to follow. Tightening the reins on the pony's neck, he did not try to turn him. Something in the stiff lines of the boy's dark figure told the doctor part of the truth. He broke in quickly, speaking not as a man speaks to a child, but as one man to another.

"There are worse things than wild beasts or Indians to be met on the Wilderness Road," he said. "And the strongest and the bravest are helpless against a stab in the back, or a trap in the dark."

David felt a sudden wish to see the speaker's face. He longed to see how a man looked who had a voice like that. It stirred him, and yet soothed him at the same time. Every tone of it rang clear and true, like a bell of purest metal. All who heard it felt the strength that it sounded—strength of body and mind and heart and spirit.

David fell under its influence at once. He was turning the pony's head when Father Orin in his anxiety erred again.

"I am surprised at the judge," the priest said. "This isn't like him—forgetful as he is about most things. And what are you here for, my son? Where were you going?"

"The judge has nothing to do with my coming to-night. He merely told me to take this money—"

"Hush! Hush!" cried the two men in a breath. At the instant they pressed closer to the boy's side, as if the same instinct of protection moved them both at the same moment. "Come on! Let's ride faster," they said together. "It is not so dark or so dangerous in the buffalo track."

The pony, turning suddenly, pressed forward with the other horses, more of his own accord than with his rider's consent, and gallantly kept his place between them, although they were soon going at the top of their speed. Nothing more was said for several minutes, and then the doctor spoke to the boy.

"You will give us the pleasure of your company all the way, I trust, sir," he said ceremoniously, and as no one ever had spoken to David. "It is a long, lonesome ride, and my home is still farther off than yours."

David murmured a pleased, bashful assent. They had now reached the buffalo track, which was not wide enough for the three to ride abreast. It was therefore necessary for them to fall into single file, and David managed to get the lead. This made him feel better, and more of a man, for the darkness was still deep, and the black boughs overhead still hung low and heavy. Neither of the horsemen spoke again for a long time after entering upon the buffalo track. Once more the only sound was the steady, muffled beating of the horses' swiftly moving feet. The two men were buried in their own thoughts of duties and aims far beyond the boy's understanding, and he was not thinking of these silent companions by his side—he was scarcely thinking at all; he was merely feeling. He was held under a spell, dumb and breathless, enchanted by the mystery of the wilderness at night.

It was so black, so beautiful, so terrible, so soundless, so motionless, so unfathomable. There was no moon. The few pale stars glimmered dimly far above the dark arches of the trees. No bird moved among the sable branches, or even twittered in its sleep as if disturbed by the light, swift passing of the shadowy horsemen. No wild animal stirred in his uneasy rest or even breathed less deeply in his hunting dreams, at the flitting of the shadows across his hidden lair.

The mystery, the beauty, and the terror went beyond the black border of the forest. Out in the open and over the clearing, the mists from the swamp mingling with the darkness gave everything a look of fantastic unreality yet wilder than it had worn earlier in the night. Dense earth-clouds were thus massed about the base of Anvil Rock. Its blackened peak loomed through the clouds,—a strange, wild sight, apparently belonging neither to earth or to heaven. But far beyond and above was a stranger, wilder sight still; the strangest and wildest of all; one of the strangest and wildest, surely, that human eyes ever rested upon.

There across the northern sky sped the great comet. Come, none ever knew whence, and speeding none ever knew whither, it reached on that night—on this fifteenth of October—the summit of its swift, awful, arching flight. It was now at the greatest of its terrible splendor and appalling beauty. It was now at the very height of its boundless influence over the hopes and fears of the superstitious, romantic, emotional, poetic race which was struggling to people the wilderness. As it thus burst upon the vision of the three horsemen, each felt its power in his own way,—the man of faith, the man of science, and the fanciful boy,—each was differently but deeply moved. The men looked at the comet as the wise and learned of the earth look at the marvels of another world. The boy gazed quiveringly, like a harp struck by a powerful hand. He strove to cast his fancies aside, and to remember what he had heard before the comet had become visible to this country. He tried vainly to recall the talk about it—not the idle and foolish superstitions which Miss Penelope had mentioned, and which all the common people believed—but the scientific facts so far as they were known. Yet even his imagination failed to realize that this flaming head, with its strange halo of darkness, and its horrible hair of livid green light, was four million times greater than the earth; or that its luminous veil—woven of star-dust so fine that other stars shone through—streamed across one hundred million of miles, thick strewn with other stars.

"Listen!" cried the doctor. "Hear that!" A distant roaring, like the oncoming of a sudden storm, rolled upward from the mists and darkness lying thicker around the swamp.

"There it is again!" Doctor Colbert went on, as if he had been waiting and listening for the sound. "There must be great excitement at the camp-meeting on this last night. Does it still interest you, Father? It does me, intensely. This is not the usual peculiar excitement which seems to belong to a crowd, though that, too, is always curious, mysterious, and interesting. We all know well enough that for some unknown reason a crowd will do wild, strange, and foolish things, which the individuals composing it would never be guilty of alone. But this is something entirely different and still more curious and mysterious. Those people down yonder keep this up by themselves when they are alone—it attacks some of them before they have ever seen one of the meetings. It is certainly the strangest phenomenon of its kind that the world ever saw. It never loses its painful fascination for me. I can't pass it by. How is it with you?"

The priest hesitated before replying. "Any form of faith—the crudest, the most absurd that any soul ever staked its salvation upon—must always be the most interesting subject in the world to every thinking mind."

"It seems so to me," the doctor replied. "And I assure you that there is no irreverence in the scientific curiosity which I feel in this extraordinary epidemic of religious frenzy; for it is certainly something of that sort. It is unmistakably contagious. I have become more and more certain of that as I have watched the poor wretches who are shrieking down yonder. It is a mental and moral epidemic, and so highly contagious that it has swept the whole state, till it now sweeps the remotest corner of the wilderness. And it seems to have originated in Kentucky. It is something peculiarly our own."

"Yes," said Father Orin, "Kentucky is the pioneer in religion, as well as politics, for the whole West. But my church came first," he added with a chuckle. "Remember that! The Catholics always lead the way and clear up the brush, with the Methodists following close behind. I got a little the start of brother Peter Cartwright; but that was my good luck, and not any lack of zeal on his part. And I've got to stir my stumps to keep ahead of him, I can tell you."

"He is down there at the meeting to-night, no doubt. He is its leading spirit. I should like to know what he really thinks of it all. He is by nature a wonderfully intelligent young fellow. And what do you really think of it, Father?" the doctor pressed. "Is this the same thing that has come down the ages? Is it the same that we find in the Bible—making great men and wise ones do such wild things? Is it the same that made a dignified gentleman, like David, dance—as those fanatics are doing down there—till he became a laughing-stock? Is it the same that made a sensible man like Saul join his faith to a witch and believe that he saw visions? And then, just remember the scandalous capers—even worse than the others—that the decent Jeremiah cut."

"Tut! Tut! Tut!" exclaimed the priest, in a voice that betrayed a smile. "Those were holy men, my young friend. I cannot allow them to be laughed at."

"Oh, come now, Father, be honest," said the doctor, laughing aloud, but adding quickly in a serious tone: "I am quite in earnest. What do you make of it all? I should greatly like to have your opinion. Is there anything in the science of your profession to explain it? There isn't in mine. The more of it I see, and the longer I study it, the farther I am from finding its source, its cause, and its real character. There! Just hear that!"

"Well, well," said Father Orin, with a sigh of evasion, "if you are going on to the camp-meeting, Toby and I will have to leave you here. We have a sick call 'way over on the Eagle Creek flats. And it's a ticklish business, going over there in the dark, isn't it, old man?" he said, patting his big gray horse. "The last time we went in the night the limb of a tree, that I couldn't see, dragged me from the saddle." He laughed as if this were a joke on Toby or himself, or both. "But Toby is a better swimmer than I am. He's better at a good many things. He got me out all right that time and a good many other times. He always does his part of our duty, and never lets me shirk mine, if he can help it. Well, then, we must be moving along, Toby, old man." He turned suddenly to the boy. "Will you go with me, David? My way passes close to Cedar House."

"Perhaps, sir, you would like to go on to the meeting," said the doctor to David. "It would give me pleasure to have you with me—if you prefer to go with me. Afterward we can ride home together. My cabin is not far beyond Cedar House."

After a little more talk it was decided that the boy should go with the doctor, and the priest bade them both a cheerful good night.

"Now, Toby, we must be putting in our best licks. If you don't look out, old man, we will be getting into idle ways. Keep us up to the mark—right up to the mark, old man!"

And so, talking to Toby, and chuckling as if Toby made telling replies, the good man and his good horse vanished in the earth-clouds round Anvil Rock. But the doctor and the boy sat their horses in motionless silence, listening to the kind, merry voice and the faithful beat, beat, of the steady feet, till both gradually died away behind the night's heavy black curtain.