But the horses are in.  We mount to our places; the big doors swing open.

“Stand away,” cries the driver.

The hostler lets go Kitty’s bridle, the horses plunge forward, and we are off at a gallop, taking the opposite direction from that pursued by old woman Larue.

This last stage is eleven miles, through a pleasanter country, and we make it in a trifle over an hour, going at an exhilarating gait, that raises our spirits out of the Marshy Hope level.  The perfection of travel is ten miles an hour, on top of a stagecoach; it is greater speed than forty by rail.  It nurses one’s pride to sit aloft, and rattle past the farmhouses, and give our dust to the cringing foot tramps.  There is something royal in the swaying of the coach body, and an excitement in the patter of the horses’ hoofs.  And what an honor it must be to guide such a machine through a region of rustic admiration!

The sun has set when we come thundering down into the pretty Catholic village of Antigonish,—­the most home-like place we have seen on the island.  The twin stone towers of the unfinished cathedral loom up large in the fading light, and the bishop’s palace on the hill—­the home of the Bishop of Arichat—­appears to be an imposing white barn with many staring windows.  At Antigonish—­with the emphasis on the last syllable—­let the reader know there is a most comfortable inn, kept by a cheery landlady, where the stranger is served by the comely handmaidens, her daughters, and feels that he has reached a home at last.  Here we wished to stay.  Here we wished to end this weary pilgrimage.  Could Baddeck be as attractive as this peaceful valley?  Should we find any inn on Cape Breton like this one?

“Never was on Cape Breton,” our driver had said; “hope I never shall be.  Heard enough about it.  Taverns?  You’ll find ’em occupied.”

“Fleas?

“Wus.”

“But it is a lovely country?”

“I don’t think it.”

Into what unknown dangers were we going?  Why not stay here and be happy?  It was a soft summer night.  People were loitering in the street; the young beaux of the place going up and down with the belles, after the leisurely manner in youth and summer; perhaps they were students from St. Xavier College, or visiting gallants from Guysborough.  They look into the post-office and the fancy store.  They stroll and take their little provincial pleasure and make love, for all we can see, as if Antigonish were a part of the world.  How they must look down on Marshy Hope and Addington Forks and Tracadie!  What a charming place to live in is this!

But the stage goes on at eight o’clock.  It will wait for no man.  There is no other stage till eight the next night, and we have no alternative but a night ride.  We put aside all else except duty and Baddeck.  This is strictly a pleasure-trip.