ken out; leisurely, the coach

stands in the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood

upon it of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into

visible existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow,

sucking and plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old

postilions count their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at

dissatisfied results. All the time, our overfraught hearts are

beating at a rate that would far outstrip the fastest gallop of the

fastest horses ever foaled.

At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are

left behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the

hill, and on the low watery grounds. Suddenly the postilions

exchange speech with animated gesticulations, and the horses are

pulled up, almost on their haunches. We are pursued?

“Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!”

“What is it?” asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.

“How many did they say?”

“I do not understand you.”

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“At the last post. How many to the Guillotine today?”

“Fifty-two.”

“I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have

it forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes

handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!”

The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to

rev