Beautiful Rienzi; or, The secret vendetta — page 174: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

BEAUTIFUL RIENZL 169 the dense air in close proximity; not half a mile stretched between us and the station at Shirley Sands. “Quick, Nelson! Sate, fate’? I shrieked, tapping on the window. | | Again he lashed the now infuriated horses, and we plunged madly through the deep, shifting sand. Still we gained upon them, but slowly—too slowly. One long hill to climb—the buggy was at the top; one long de- scent to the next valley, and Shirley would be reached. The dripping horses broke into a reckless canter up the hill, and the fitful sheets of rain swept down—a dreary, des- perate picture. We gained the summit; but our will-o’-the- wisp had disappeared. Down in the valley nestled a small, confused cluster of houses, some maple trees, an arch of in-coming ocean, a long station house, with a grimy engine protruding, which emitted black volumes of smoke and puffs of shrieking steam. | Down we rushed recklessly, with a crunching of our wheels, like thunder on the rocky hill-side. Nelson’s sharp eye marked the fresh wheel-tracks, and, without hesitation, he dashed into the station, where a confused mass of Ve- hicles were wedged together upon the narrow platform. ‘“No time to lose,” he cried, banging open the door, ‘train off in one minute. ‘There’s your man behind that load of hay—don’t see lady nowhere.” We alighted and followed Nelson through a throng of shouting guards, grumbling farmers, and backing vehicles, in safety to the other end of the open building, where the buggy stood, and the little brown horse, with his nostrils dilated and foam-flecked, hung his head and snorted at his feet. Beside the carriage stood a man, clad in a rough dread- naught, and slouch hat. His hands were thrust into’ his pockets; his head was slightly bent forward, with a singu- larly crafty air; his eyes were peering from underneath the shadow of his hat, luminous and startling; he was softly whistling, and watching our difficult approach with calm triumph. | | Not until we were confronting him did I recognize Ralph Morecombe, the runaway gardener. “What, did you drive her here?” I exclaimed, starting back. ‘‘ Renegade, where is your mistress?” CORNUCG OOO S (©)