Book the Third - The Track of a Storm
13. XIII. Fifty-two
(continued)
Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous
buildings, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues
of leafless trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft
deep mud is on either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting
mud, to avoid the stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we
stick in ruts and sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then
so great, that in our wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and
running--hiding--doing anything but stopping.
Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary
farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and
threes, avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and
taken us back by another road? Is not this the same place twice over?
Thank Heaven, no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are
pursued! Hush! the posting-house.
Leisurely, our four horses are taken 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 gesticulation, 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."
"--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?"
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