The Broad Highway

"No," I answered, beginning to unwind my neckcloth.

"Nor it ain't no good to go a-bandagin' and a-bindin' of 'im up

--like you did last time."

"No," said I; "no." And stepping into the chaise, I muffled that

disfigured face in my neckcloth; having done which, I closed the

door.

"What now?" inquired the Postilion.

"Now you can drive us to Cranbrook."

"What--be you a-comin' too?"

"Yes," I nodded; "yes, I am coming too."

"Lord love me!" he exclaimed, and a moment later I heard him

chirruping to his horses; the whip cracked and the chaise lurched

forward. Whether he had some wild notion that I might attempt to

descend and make my escape before we reached our destination, I

cannot say, but he drove at a furious pace, taking corners at

reckless speed, so that the chaise lurched and swayed most

violently, and, more than once, I was compelled to hold that

awful figure down upon the seat before me, lest it should slide

to the floor. On we sped, past hedge and tree, by field and

lonely wood. And ever in my ears was the whir of the wheels, the

drumming of hoofs, and the crack of the whip; and ever the

flitting moonbeams danced across that muffled face until it

seemed that the features writhed and gibed at me, beneath the

folds of the neckerchief.

And so at last came lights and houses, and the sound of excited

voices as we pulled up before the Posting House at Cranbrook.

Looking from the window, I saw a ring of faces with eyes that

gleamed in the light of the lanthorns, and every eye was fixed on

me, and every foot gave back a step as I descended from the

chaise. And, while I stood there, the Postilion came with two

white-faced ostlers, who, between them, bore a heavy burden

through the crowd, stumbling awkwardly as they went; and, as

men saw that which they carried, there came a low, deep sound

--wordless, inarticulate, yet full of menace. But, above this

murmur rose a voice, and I saw the Postilion push his way to the

steps of the inn, and turn there, with hands clenched and raised

above his head.

"My master--Sir Maurice Vibart--is killed--shot to death

--murdered down there in the 'aunted 'Oller!" he cried, "and,

if you axes me who done it, I says to you--'e did--so 'elp me

God!" and speaking, he raised his whip and pointed at me.

Once more there rose that inarticulate sound of menace, and once

more all eyes were fixed upon me.