dan shot on his torch and kept the mare at a trot over the rocky floor, snorting, protesting but believing in the right of her master to guide her at his will, not hers.
So they came to where the gate had been.
The stout timbers of the frame were charred and still smoking. Sullen flakes and sparks of fire glowed here and there. The door itself had been first burned and then battered down.
Sheridan set the mare, shying a little at the smoke and heat, and she leaped through the gap, followed by Jackson on the roan, up the passage to the turn, out of it to the gorge, up, terrace by terrace, past the sculptured sandstone monuments, both horses catching the fiery impulses of their masters, mounting sure-footed and swift as mountain goats until they reached the rim and tore across the level meadow to where the log house, backed by its grove of pines, was reflected in the peaceful lake. There was no sign of Thora. Sheridan had expected her to meet them at the gate.
At the house he jumped off the mare and looked in at the open door. Jackson went round to the back. The main room was in confusion. The Colonial furniture had arrived. Pieces of it were in place, curtains up at the windows, but much of it was upset. Chairs sprawled, one of them broken. The door to the inner room was open, showing a bed, a mahogany four-poster, with its linen and blankets tossed aside. There were a few articles of clothing on a chair. He noticed stockings. But the place was empty. Jackson called to him.
