When we reached the "Bullock Pens," half a mile west of Wilkinsburg, there were many lights and much bustle in and around the old yellow tavern, where teamsters were attending to their weary horses.

Here we turned off to the old mud road, and came to a place of which I had no previous knowledge--a place of outer darkness and chattering teeth.
We met no more teams, saw no more lights, but seemed to be in an utterly uninhabited country.

Then, after an hour of wearisome jolting and plunging, we discovered that the darkness had not been total, for the line of the horizon had been visible, but now it was swallowed up.

We knew we were in a wood, by the rush of the wind amid the dried white oak leaves--knew that the road grew rougher at every step--that our driver became more nervous as he applied the brake, and we went down, down.
Still the descent grew steeper.

We stopped, and Father Olever felt for the bank with his whip to be sure we were on the road.