e went on, though not at the same gallant pace as
heretofore. But, as the tired bird still battles with the blast upon the
ocean, as the swimmer still stems the stream, though spent, on went she:
nor did Turpin dare to check her, fearing that, if she stopped, she
might lose her force, or, if she fell, she would rise no more.

It was now that gray and grimly hour ere one flicker of orange or rose
has gemmed the east, and when unwearying Nature herself seems to snatch
brief repose. In the roar of restless cities, this is the only time when
their strife is hushed. Midnight is awake--alive; the streets ring with
laughter and with rattling wheels. At the third hour, a dead, deep
silence prevails; the loud-voiced streets grow dumb. They are deserted
of all, save the few guardians of the night and the skulking robber. But
even far removed from the haunts of men and hum of towns it is the same.
"Nature's best nurse" seems to weigh nature down, and stillness reigns
throughout. Our feelings are, in a great measure, influenced by the
hour. Exposed to the raw, crude atmosphere, which has neither the
nipping, wholesome shrewdness of morn, nor the profound chillness of
night, the frame vainly struggles against the dull, miserable sensations
engendered by the damps, and at once communicates them to the spirits.
Hope forsakes us. We are weary, exhausted. Our energy is dispirited.
Sleep does "not weigh our eyelids down." We stare upon the vacancy. We
conjure up a thousand restless, disheartening images. We abandon
projects we have formed, and which, viewed through this medium, appear
fantastical, chimerical, absurd. We want rest, refreshment, energy.

We will not say that Turpin had all these misgivings. But he had to
struggle hard with himself to set sleep and exhaustion at defiance.

The moon had set. The stars,

Pinnacled deep in the intense main,

had all--save one, the herald of the dawn--withdrawn their luster. A
dull mist lay on the stream, and the air became piercing cold. Turpin's
chilled fingers could scarcely grasp the slackening rein, while his
eyes, irritated by the keen atmosphere, hardly enabled him to
distinguish surrounding objects, or even to guide his steed. It was
owing, probably, to this latter circumstance, that Bess suddenly
floundered and fell, throwing her master over her head.

Turpin instantly recovered himself. His first thought was for his horse.
But Bess was instantly upon her legs--covered with du