“No, no!” moaned up the woman. “Not the last—my God, no!”
“Don’t take on, my dear,” he said. “Charlie done his dooty like a man; and there’s not a coach vheel ’ll go over that there patch on the road but ’ll roll up a bloody account agen his murderers.”
She only sighed miserably in answer. The deep apathy of grief was in her veins like a drug.
“How many?” said Tuke.
“Six, if there was vun, sir. Six cursed ruffians to dance agen the sky and serve the crows for black pudden, so be there’s any vally in the fellowship of the road.”
He shook his pillow of an arm aloft—finely, for all the heavy oddity of his appearance.
“Aye,” he murmured, in response to a gesture—“the man’s wife and his youngster.”
At the word a woman—one from the huddled group of robbed and terrified passengers—came out into the glow, and snatching up the child, forced it whimpering into its mother’s arms. The act was well conceived. The desolate creature caught at the hope, and held it convulsively against her breast; and in a moment her burdened heart found relief.
Mr. Tuke backed silently. “No,” the coachman had growled to him—“he wanted no help. He could get on well enough now. There was nothing for it but to complete his crippled stage, and as quickly as possible set the law in motion.”
The chaise, with its occupants, was drawn up at a little distance from the tragic scene. As the horseman made for it, eager to reassure his friends that any cause for present alarm was passed, he was aware of a figure standing by the door and addressing those within in exceedingly tremulous tones.