The next instant we were on the mountain top, and beheld the carriage half way down beneath us, still galloping at full stretch.
"We have them now," said a voice behind me; "they'll never turn Lurra Bridge, if we only press on." The speaker was right; the road at the mountain foot turned at a perfect right angle, and then crossed a lofty one-arched bridge over a mountain torrent that ran deep and boisterously beneath.

On we went, gaining at every stride; for the fellows who rode postilion well knew what was before them, and slackened their pace to secure a safe turning.

A yell of victory arose from the pursuers, but was answered by the others with a cheer of defiance.

The space was now scarcely two hundred yards between us, when the head of the britska was flung down, and a figure that I at once recognized as the redoubted Tim Finucane, one of the boldest and most reckless fellows in the county, was seen standing on the seat, holding,--gracious Heavens! it was true,--holding in his arms the apparently lifeless figure of Miss Dashwood.
"Hold in!" shouted the ruffian, with a voice that rose high above all the other sounds.

"Hold in! or by the Eternal, I'll throw her, body and bones, into the Lurra Gash!" for such was the torrent called that boiled and foamed a few yards before us.
[Illustration: THE RESCUE.] He had by this time got firmly planted on the hind seat, and held the drooping form on one arm with all the ease of a giant's grasp.
"For the love of God!" said I, "pull up.