and fancied that the men were supping; but he knew nothing for certain, and by-and-by the light was put out.  A brief—­and agonising—­period of silence followed, during which he thought that he caught the distant tramp of horses; but he had heard the same sound before, it might be the beating of his heart, and before he could decide, oaths and exclamations broke the silence, and there was a sudden bustle.  In less than a minute the chaise lurched forward, a whip cracked, and they took the road again.

The tutor breathed more freely, and, rid of the fear of being overheard, regained a little of his unctuousness.  ‘My dear good lady,’ he said, moving a trifle nearer to Julia, and even making a timid plunge for her hand, ’you must not give way.  I protest you must not give way.  Depend on me!  Depend on me, and all will be well.  I—­oh dear, what a bump!  I’—­this as he retreated precipitately to his corner—­’I fear we are stopping!’

They were, but only for an instant, that the lamps might be lighted.  Then the chaise rolled on again, but from the way in which it jolted and bounded, shaking its passengers this way and that, it was evident that it no longer kept the main road.  The moment this became clear to Mr. Thomasson his courage vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

‘Where are they taking us?’ he cried, rising and sitting down again; and peering first this way and then the other.  ’My G—­d, we are undone!  We shall be murdered—­I know we shall!  Oh dear! what a jolt!  They are taking us to some cut-throat place!  There again!  Didn’t you feel it?  Don’t you understand, woman?  Oh, Lord,’ he continued, piteously wringing his hands, ‘why did I mix myself up with this trouble?’

She did not answer, and enraged by her silence and insensibility, the cowardly tutor could have found it in his heart to strike her.  Fortunately the ray of light which now penetrated the carriage suggested an idea which he hastened to carry out.  He had no paper, and, given paper, he had no ink; but falling back on what he had, he lugged out his snuff-box and pen-knife, and holding the box in the ray of light, and himself as still as the road permitted, he set to work, laboriously and with set teeth, to scrawl on the bottom of the box the message of which we know.  To address it to Mr. Fishwick and sign it Julia were natural precautions, since he knew that the girl, and not he, would be the object of pursuit.  When he had finished his task, which was no light one—­the road growing worse and the carriage shaking more and more—­he went to thrust the box under the door, which fitted ill at the bottom.  But stooping to remove the straw, he reflected that probably the road they were in was a country lane, where the box would be difficult to find; and in a voice trembling with fear and impatience, he called to the girl to give him her black kerchief.

She did not ask him why or for what, but complied without opening her eyes.  No words could have described her state more eloquently.