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?"
"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 revive,
and to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks
him, by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven,
and help us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and
the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit
of us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.
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