Lord be good unto me! cried the poor fool, looking out of the coach—­Mr. Lovelace!—­Madam! turning to the pretended Lady Betty!—­Madam! turning to the niece, my hands and eyes lifted up—­Lord be good unto me!

What!  What!  What! my dear.

He pulled the string—­What need to have come this way? said he—­But since we are, I will but ask a question—­My dearest life, why this apprehension?

The coachman stopped:  his servant, who, with one of her’s was behind, alighted—­Ask, said he, if I have any letters?  Who knows, my dearest creature, turning to me, but we may already have one from the Captain?—­ We will not go out of the coach!—­Fear nothing—­Why so apprehensive?—­Oh! these fine spirits!—­cried the execrable insulter.

Dreadfully did my heart then misgive me:  I was ready to faint.  Why this terror, my life? you shall not stir out of the coach but one question, now the fellow has drove us this way.

Your lady will faint, cried the execrable Lady Betty, turning to him—­My dearest Niece! (niece I will call you, taking my hand)—­we must alight, if you are so ill.—­Let us alight—­only for a glass of water and hartshorn—­indeed we must alight.

No, no, no—­I am well—­quite well—­Won’t the man drive on?—­I am well—­ quite well—­indeed I am.—­Man, drive on, putting my head out of the coach —­Man, drive on!—­though my voice was too low to be heard.

The coach stopt at the door.  How I trembled!

Dorcas came to the door, on its stopping.

My dearest creature, said the vile man, gasping, as it were for breath, you shall not alight—­Any letters for me, Dorcas?

There are two, Sir.  And here is a gentleman, Mr. Belton, Sir, waits for your honour; and has done so above an hour.

I’ll just speak to him.  Open the door—­You sha’n’t step out, my dear—­A letter perhaps from Captain already!—­You sha’n’t step out, my dear.

I sighed as if my heart would burst.

But we must step out, Nephew:  your lady will faint.  Maid, a glass of hartshorn and water!—­My dear you must step out—­You will faint, child—­ We must cut your laces.—­[I believe my complexion was all manner of colours by turns]—­Indeed, you must step out, my dear.

He knew, said I, I should be well, the moment the coach drove from the door.  I should not alight.  By his soul, I should not.

Lord, Lord, Nephew, Lord, Lord, Cousin, both women in a breath, what ado you make about nothing!  You persuade your lady to be afraid of alighting.—­See you not that she is just fainting?

Indeed, Madam, said the vile seducer, my dearest love must not be moved in this point against her will.  I beg it may not be insisted upon.

Fiddle-faddle, foolish man—­What a pother is here!  I guess how it is:  you are ashamed to let us see what sort of people you carried your lady among—­but do you go out, and speak to your friend, and take your letters.