pudding.  The great Aigle began to tremble and waltz on the surface that was no surface; yet it would have been impossible to go back.  I saw by my companion’s set face how real was the danger we were in; I saw, as the car skated first one way, then another, that there were but a few inches to spare on either side of the road shelf; the side which was a rocky wall, the side which was a precipice; I saw, too, how the man braced himself to this emergency, when three lives besides his own depended on his nerve and skill, almost upon his breath—­for it seemed as if a breath too long, a breath too short, might hurl us down—­down—­I dared not look or think how far.  Yet the fixed look of courage and self-confidence on his face was inspiring.  I trusted him completely, and I should have been ashamed to feel fear.

But it was at this moment, when all hung upon the driver’s steadiness of eye and hand, that Lady Turnour chose to begin emitting squeaks of childish terror.  I hadn’t known I was nervous, and only found out that I was highly strung by the jump I gave at her first shriek behind me.  If the chauffeur had started—­but he didn’t.  He showed no sign of having heard.

I would not venture to turn, and look round, lest the slightest movement of my body so near his arm might disturb him; but poor Sir Samuel, driven to desperation by his wife’s hysterical cries, pushed down the glass again.

“Good Lord, Dane, this is appalling!” he said.  “My wife can’t bear it.  Isn’t it possible for us to—­to—­” he paused, not knowing how to end so empty a sentence.

“All that’s possible to do I’m doing,” returned the chauffeur, still looking straight ahead.  And instead of advising the foolish old bridegroom to shake the bride or box her ears, as surely he was tempted to do, he added calmly that her ladyship must not be too anxious.  We were going to get out of this all right, and before long.

“Tell him to go back.  I shall go back!” wailed Lady Turnour.

“Dearest, we can’t!” her husband assured her.

“Then tell him to stop and let me get out and walk.  This is too awful.  He wants to kill us.”

“Can you stop and let us get out?” pleaded Sir Samuel.

“To stop here would be the most dangerous thing we could do,” was the answer.

“You hear, Emmie, my darling.”

“I hear.  Impudence to dictate to you!  Whatever you are willing to do, I won’t be bearded.”

One would have thought she was an oyster.  But she was quite right in not wishing to add a beard to her charms, as already a moustache was like those coming events that cast a well-defined shadow before.  For an instant I half thought that Mr. Dane would try and stop, her tone was so furious, but he drove on as steadily as if he had not a passenger more fit for Bedlam than for a motor-car.