Once he started, Mr. Kemp did not relent, and we pushed on, passing the village of Linton Roderick and the lovely house of Newhall; Carlops, with its memories of Ebeneezer, Nine Mile Burn with its dark inn and the tiny hamlets of Silverburn and Howgate. The miles flowed past in a blur of foaming horses and skill, for we had to really ride. The road was snowy, you see, with patches of ice, and we had no light but that provided by nature"s lantern.
I followed Mr. Kemp"s directions, obeying his instructions implicitly as he showed me a dangerous stretch of ice or the best route to take, but I kept up. I am proud to say I did not lag behind so when we reached the outskirts of Edinburgh, I was only a few yards behind, but our horses were completely blown.
“Look.” Mr. Kemp indicated the road a
