David fell under its influence at once.  He was turning the pony’s head when Father Orin in his anxiety erred again.

“I am surprised at the judge,” the priest said.  “This isn’t like him—­forgetful as he is about most things.  And what are you here for, my son?  Where were you going?”

“The judge has nothing to do with my coming to-night.  He merely told me to take this money—­”

“Hush!  Hush!” cried the two men in a breath.  At the instant they pressed closer to the boy’s side, as if the same instinct of protection moved them both at the same moment.  “Come on!  Let’s ride faster,” they said together.  “It is not so dark or so dangerous in the buffalo track.”

The pony, turning suddenly, pressed forward with the other horses, more of his own accord than with his rider’s consent, and gallantly kept his place between them, although they were soon going at the top of their speed.  Nothing more was said for several minutes, and then the doctor spoke to the boy.

“You will give us the pleasure of your company all the way, I trust, sir,” he said ceremoniously, and as no one ever had spoken to David.  “It is a long, lonesome ride, and my home is still farther off than yours.”

David murmured a pleased, bashful assent.  They had now reached the buffalo track, which was not wide enough for the three to ride abreast.  It was therefore necessary for them to fall into single file, and David managed to get the lead.  This made him feel better, and more of a man, for the darkness was still deep, and the black boughs overhead still hung low and heavy.  Neither of the horsemen spoke again for a long time after entering upon the buffalo track.  Once more the only sound was the steady, muffled beating of the horses’ swiftly moving feet.  The two men were buried in their own thoughts of duties and aims far beyond the boy’s understanding, and he was not thinking of these silent companions by his side—­he was scarcely thinking at all; he was merely feeling.  He was held under a spell, dumb and breathless, enchanted by the mystery of the wilderness at night.

It was so black, so beautiful, so terrible, so soundless, so motionless, so unfathomable.  There was no moon.  The few pale stars glimmered dimly far above the dark arches of the trees.  No bird moved among the sable branches, or even twittered in its sleep as if disturbed by the light, swift passing of the shadowy horsemen.  No wild animal stirred in his uneasy rest or even breathed less deeply in his hunting dreams, at the flitting of the shadows across his hidden lair.

The mystery, the beauty, and the terror went beyond the black border of the forest.  Out in the open and over the clearing, the mists from the swamp mingling with the darkness gave everything a look of fantastic unreality yet wilder than it had worn earlier in the night.  Dense earth-clouds were thus massed about the base of Anvil Rock.  Its blackened peak loomed through the clouds,—­a strange, wild sight, apparently belonging neither to earth or to heaven.  But far beyond and above was a stranger, wilder sight still; the strangest and wildest of all; one of the strangest and wildest, surely, that human eyes ever rested upon.