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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.