n; Harold, thrown forward a few feet,
touched the earth upon the edge of the rocky bank that descended
precipitously a hundred feet or more to the river--a few steps further,
and horse and rider would have plunged over the verge of the bluff.

Harold, though bruised by his fall, was not considerably hurt; without
hesitation, he commenced the hazardous descent, difficult by day, but
perilous and uncertain in the darkness. Clinging to each projecting rock
and feeling cautiously for a foothold among the slippery ledges, he had
accomplished half the distance and could already hear the light plashing
of the wave upon the boulders below. He heard a voice above, shouting:
"Look out for the bluff there, we must be near it!"

The warning came too late. There was a cry of terror--the blended voice
of man and horse, startling the night and causing Harold to crouch with
instinctive horror close to the dripping rock. There was a rush of wind
and the bounding by of a dark whirling body, which rolled over and over,
tearing over the sharp angles of the cliff, and scattering the loose
fragments of stone over him as he clung motionless to his support. Then
there was a dull thump below, and a little afterward a terrible moan,
and then all was still.

Harold continued his descent and reached the base of the bluff in
safety. Through the darkness he could see a dark mass lying like a
shadow among the pointed stones, with the waves of the river rippling
about it. He approached it. There lay the steed gasping in the last
agony, and the rider beneath him, crushed, mangled and dead. He stooped
down by the side of the corpse; it was bent double beneath the quivering
body of the dying horse, in such a manner as must have snapped the spine
in twain. Harold lifted the head, but let it fall again with a shudder,
for his fingers had slipped into the crevice of the cleft skull and were
all smeared with the oozing brain. Yet, despite the obscurity and the
disfigurement, despite the bursting eyeballs and the clenched jaws
through which the blood was trickling, he recognized the features of
Seth Rawbon.

No time for contemplation or for revery. There was a scrambling
overhead, with now and then a snarl and an angry growl. And further up,
he heard the sound of voices, labored and suppressed, as of men who were
speaking while toiling at some unwonted exercise. Harold threw off his
coat and boots, and waded out into the river. The dark hull of the
schoon