“Ay, there’s one chance in twenty, maybe,” I growled, looking gloomily back, and wishing I might see the pursuing chaise upset, or one of its horses stumble.

There is an old proverb about evil wishes rebounding to strike the sender; and a recollection of this was my paramount thought a moment later:  for at a sharp turn our chaise suddenly seemed to leap into the air and alight on one wheel, and then turned over sidewise with what appeared to be a solemn deliberation, piling me upon Philip in a heap.  We felt the conveyance dragged some yards along the road, and then it came to a stop.  A moment later we heard the postilions cursing the horses, and then we clambered out of the upper side of the chaise, and leaped into the road.  We had been knocked, shaken, and bruised, but were not seriously hurt.

“Here’s the devil to pay,” cried the older postilion excitedly, turning his attention from the trembling horses to the wrecked vehicle.

“We will pay—­but you will let us ride your horses the rest of the way?” asked Phil, quietly, rather as a matter of form than with any hope of success.

“No, sir!” roared the man.  “Bean’t there damage enough?  Just look—­”

“Tut, man,” said Phil, examining the chaise, “a guinea will mend all—­and there it is, and your extra crowns, too, though you failed.  Well,” he added, turning to me, “shall we take to the fields?  They’ll have to hunt us afoot then, and we may beat ’em at that.”

But I found I was too lame, from the knocking about I had got in the upset vehicle, for any game of hare and hounds.  “Go you,” said I.  “I was only the second—­there’s less danger for me.”

“I’ll not go, then,” said he.  “What a pity I drew you into this, Bert!  I ought to have considered Fanny and your mother.  They’ll never forgive me—­they never ought to.—­Well, now we shall know the worst!”

The second vehicle came to a triumphant stop near us, the postilions grinning with satisfaction.  Phil and I stood passive in the road:  I remember wondering whether the officers of the law would put handcuffs upon us.  A head was thrust out of the window—­a voice called to us.

“Madge!” we cried together, and hastened to her.

“I was afraid you might sail before I got to Hastings,” cried she, with relief and joy depicted on her face.

“Who is with you?” asked Phil.

“No one,” she answered.  “I left Bert’s letter with my maid, to give to Fanny.  I left the girl too, to stay with her if she will take her.  I didn’t wish to encumber—­Your chaise is broken down:  get into this one.  Oh, Phil!—­I couldn’t bear to have you go away—­and leave me—­after I had seen you again.  ’Twas something to know you were in London, at least—­near me.  But if you go to France—­you must let me go, too—­you must, dear—­as your friend, your comrade and helper, if nothing more—­your old friend, that knew you so long ago—­”

She lost voice here, and began to cry, still looking at him through the mist of tears.  His own eyes glistened softly as he returned her gaze; and, after a moment, he went close to the window through which her head was thrust, raised his hand so as to stroke her hair, and kissed her on the lips.