This plan was agreed upon, and after the guards had passed out at Dove-cote Gate and were well down toward Rowsley, I rode out from the Hall, and waited for Dorothy at an appointed spot near Overhaddon.

Immediately after my departure Dolcy was saddled, and soon Dorothy rode furiously up to me.  Away we sped, Dorothy and I, by Yulegrave church, down into the dale, and up the river.  Never shall I forget that mad ride.  Heavy rains had recently fallen, and the road in places was almost impassable.  The rivers were in flood, but when Dorothy and I reached the ford, the girl did not stop to consider the danger ahead of her.  I heard her whisper, “On, Dolcy, on,” and I heard the sharp “whisp” of the whip as she struck the trembling, fearful mare, and urged her into the dark flood.  Dolcy hesitated, but Dorothy struck her again and again with the whip and softly cried, “On, Dolcy, on.”  Then mare and rider plunged into the swollen river, and I, of course, followed them.  The water was so deep that our horses were compelled to swim, and when we reached the opposite side of the river we had drifted with the current a distance of at least three hundred yards below the road.  We climbed the cliff by a sheep path.  How Dorothy did it I do not know; and how I succeeded in following her I know even less.  When we reached the top of the cliff, Dorothy started off at full gallop, leading the way, and again I followed.  The sheep path leading up the river to the road followed close the edge of the cliff, where a false step by the horse would mean death to both horse and rider.  But Dorothy feared not, or knew not, the danger, and I caught her ever whispered cry,—­“On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, on.”  Ashamed to fall behind, yet fearing to ride at such a pace on such a path, I urged my horse forward.  He was a fine, strong, mettlesome brute, and I succeeded in keeping the girl’s dim form in sight.  The moon, which was rapidly sinking westward, still gave us light through rifts in the black bank of floating clouds, else that ride over the sheep path by the cliff would have been our last journey in the flesh.

Soon we reached the main road turning southward.  It was a series of rough rocks and mudholes, and Dorothy and Dolcy shot forward upon it with the speed of the tempest, to undo, if possible, the evil which a dozen words, untimely spoken, had wrought.  I urged my horse until his head was close by Dolcy’s tail, and ever and anon could I hear the whispered cry,—­“On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, sweet Dolcy, good Dolcy; on, my pet, on.”

No word was spoken between Dorothy and me; but I could hear Dolcy panting with her mighty effort, and amid the noise of splashing water and the thud, thud, thud of our horses’ hoofs came always back to me from Dorothy’s lips the sad, sad cry, full of agony and longing,—­“On, Dolcy, on; on Dolcy, on.”