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"
Not
here
.
Yonder
it
is
blowing
a
hurricane
,
and
this
way
too
--
direct
.
By
heavens
!
it
is
nearing
us
rapidly
!
I
doubt
if
we
shall
be
able
to
clear
the
burnt
track
.
"
"
What
is
to
be
done
?
"
exclaimed
the
planter
,
terrified
by
the
announcement
.
"
Are
your
mules
doing
their
best
?
"
"
They
are
:
they
could
not
be
driven
faster
.
"
"
I
fear
we
shall
be
too
late
,
then
!
"
As
the
speaker
gave
utterance
to
this
gloomy
conjecture
,
he
reined
round
once
more
;
and
sate
regarding
the
cloud
columns
--
as
if
calculating
the
rate
at
which
they
were
advancing
.
The
lines
,
contracting
around
his
lips
,
told
of
something
more
than
dissatisfaction
.
"
Yes
:
too
late
!
"
he
exclaimed
,
suddenly
terminating
his
scrutiny
.
"
They
are
moving
faster
than
we
--
far
faster
.
There
is
no
hope
of
our
escaping
them
!
"
"
Good
God
,
sir
!
is
the
danger
so
great
?
Can
we
do
nothing
to
avoid
it
?
"
The
stranger
did
not
make
immediate
reply
.
For
some
seconds
he
remained
silent
,
as
if
reflecting
--
his
glance
no
longer
turned
towards
the
sky
,
but
wandering
among
the
waggons
.
