e mirror. Robert Carewe was
waiting--and Crailey---- All at once there was but one vital necessity
in the world for Tom Vanrevel, that was to find Crailey; he must go to
Crailey--even in Carewe's own house--he must go to Crailey!

He dashed down the stairs and into the street. The people were making a
great uproar in front of the hotel, exploding bombs, firing muskets in
the air, sending up rockets; and rapidly crossing the outskirts of the
crowd, he passed into Carewe Street, unnoticed. Here the detonations
were not so deafening, though the little steamboat at the wharf
was contributing to the confusion with all in her power, screeching
simultaneously approval of the celebration and her last signals of
departure.

At the first corner Tom had no more than left the sidewalk when he
came within a foot of being ridden down by two horsemen who rode at so
desperate a gallop that (the sound of their hoof-beats being lost in
the uproar from Main Street) they were upon him before he was aware of
them.

He leaped back with an angry shout to know who they were that they rode
so wildly. At the same time a sharp explosion at the foot of the street
sent a red flare over the scene, a flash, gone with such incredible
swiftness into renewed darkness that he saw the flying horsemen almost
as equestrian statues illumined by a flicker of lightning, but he saw
them with the same distinctness that lightning gives, and recognized the
foremost as Robert Carewe. And in the instant of that recognition, Tom
knew what had happened to Crailey Gray, for he saw the truth in the
ghastly face of his enemy.

Carewe rode stiffly, like a man frozen upon his horse, and his face
was like that of a frozen man; his eyes glassy and not fixed upon his
course, so that it was a deathly thing to see. Once, long ago, Tom had
seen a man riding for his life, and he wore this same look. The animal
bounded and swerved under Vanrevel's enemy in the mad rush down the
street, but he sat rigid, bolt upright in the saddle, his face set to
that look of coldness.

The second rider was old Nelson, who rode with body crouched forward,
his eyeballs like shining porcelain set in ebony, and his arm like a
flail, cruelly lashing his own horse and his master's with a heavy whip.
"De steamboat!" he shouted, hoarsely, bringing down the lash on one and
then on the other. "De steamboat, de steamboat--f o' God's sake, honey,
de steamboat!"

They swept into Main Street, Nelson le