Thoroughly mystified by the action of the driver and at length terrified
by the pace that carried them careening along the narrow road, Beverly
cried out to him, her voice shrill with alarm. Aunt Fanny was crouching
on the floor of the coach, between the seats, groaning and praying.

"Stop! Where are you going?" cried Beverly, putting her head recklessly
through the window. If the man heard her he gave no evidence of the
fact. His face was set forward and he was guiding the horses with a
firm, unquivering hand. The coach rattled and bounded along the
dangerous way hewn in the side of the mountain. A misstep or a false
turn might easily start the clumsy vehicle rolling down the declivity on
the right. The convict was taking desperate chances, and with a cool,
calculating brain, prepared to leap to the ground in case of accident
and save himself, without a thought for the victims inside.

"Stop! Turn around!" she cried in a frenzy. "We shall be killed! Are you
crazy?"

By this time they had struck a descent in the road and were rushing
along at breakneck speed into oppressive shadows that bore the first
imprints of night. Realizing at last that her cries were falling upon
purposely deaf ears, Beverly Calhoun sank back into the seat, weak and
terror-stricken. It was plain to her that the horses were not running
away, for the man had been lashing them furiously. There was but one
conclusion: he was deliberately taking her farther into the mountain
fastnesses, his purpose known only to himself. A hundred terrors
presented themselves to her as she lay huddled against the side of the
coach, her eyes closed tightly, her tender body tossed furiously about
with the sway of the vehicle. There was the fundamental fear that she