“So ho!” exclaimed the Postilion as he came up, raising his lanthorn that he might view me the better; “it’s you again, is it?”

“Yes,” I nodded.

“Well, I don’t like it,” he grumbled, “a-meeting of each other again like this, in this ’ere ghashly place—­no, I don’t like it —­too much like last time to be nat’ral, and, as you know, I can’t abide onnat’ralness.  If I was to ax you where my master was, like as not you’d tell me ’e was—­”

“Here!” said I, and, moving aside, pointed to the shadow.

The Postilion stepped nearer, lowering his lanthorzs. then staggered blindly backward.

“Lord!” he whimpered, “Lord love me!” and stood staring, with dropped jaw.

“Where is your chaise?”

“Up yonder—­yonder—­in the lane,” he mumbled, his eyes still fixed.

“Then help me to carry him there.”

“No, no—­I dursn’t touch it—­I can’t—­not me—­not me!”

“I think you will,” said I, and took the pistol from my pocket.

“Ain’t one enough for to-night?” he muttered; “put it away—­I’ll come—­I’ll do it—­put it away.”  So I dropped the weapon back into my pocket while the Postilion, shivering violently, stooped with me above the inanimate figure, and, with our limp burden between us, we staggered and stumbled up the path, and along the lane to where stood a light traveling chaise.

“’E ain’t likely to come to this time, I’m thinkin’!” said the Postilion, mopping the sweat from his brow and grinning with pallid lips, after we had got our burden into the vehicle; “no, ’e ain’t likely to wake up no more, nor yet ’curse my ‘ead off’ —­this side o’ Jordan.”

“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.