For five seconds more of his
seventy he sat immovably, like one that mused on some great purpose.
For five more, perhaps, he sat with eyes upraised, like one that prayed
in sorrow, under some extremity of doubt, for light that should guide
him to the better choice. Then suddenly he rose; stood upright; and, by
a powerful strain upon the reins, raising his horse's fore-feet from
the ground, he slewed him round on the pivot of his hind-legs, so as to
plant the little equipage in a position nearly at right angles to ours.
Thus far his condition was not improved; except as a first step had
been taken towards the possibility of a second. If no more were done,
nothing was done; for the little carriage still occupied the very
centre of our path, though in an altered direction. Yet even now it may
not be too late: fifteen of the seventy seconds may still be
unexhausted; and one almighty bound may avail to clear the ground.
Hurry, then, hurry! for the flying moments--_they_ hurry. Oh,
hurry, hurry, my brave young man! for the cruel hoofs of our horses--
_they_ also hurry! Fast are the flying moments, faster are the
hoofs of our horses. But fear not for _him_, if human energy can
suffice; faithful was he that drove to his terrific duty; faithful was
the horse to _his_ command. One blow, one impulse given with voice
and hand, by the stranger, one rush from the horse, one bound as if in
the act of rising to a fence, landed the docile creature's forefeet
upon the crown or arching centre of the road.
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