Below them on the spiral road two heavy carts were slowly mounting.
These were the long country carts used for the carriage of wine-
casks, heavily laden with barrels for the monastery. The drivers,
looking up, saw in a moment what to expect, and ran to the head of
their long teams of eight mules, but all concerned knew in a flash
of thought that they could not pull aside in time.

"Leap, in the name of a saint!" cried the driver, clenching his
teeth.

Whittaker made no answer. But he cleared his feet and sat forward,
his keen face and narrow eyes alert to seize any chance of life.
The maddened mules rushed on, seeking to free themselves from the
swaying destroyer on their heels. The leaders swung round the
corner, but refused to obey the reins when they caught sight of the
cart in front. The brakes had long ceased to act; the wooden blocks
were charred as by fire. The two heavier mules at the pole made a
terrified but intelligent attempt to check the pace, and the weighty
vehicle skidded sideways across the road, shuddering and rattling as
it went. It poised for a moment on the edge of the slope, while the
mules threw themselves into their collars--their intelligence
seeming to rise at this moment to a human height. Then the great
vehicle turned slowly over, and at the same moment Whittaker and the
driver leapt into the tangle of heels and harness. One of the
leaders swung right out in mid-air with flying legs, and mules and
diligencia rolled over and over down the steep in a cloud of dust
and stones.

When Matthew S. Whittaker recovered consciousness, he found himself