‘“Never,” said my uncle. And he meant it too.
‘“My dear preserver!” exclaimed the young lady. “My dear, kind, brave preserver!”
‘“Don’t,” said my uncle, interrupting her.
‘“‘Why?” inquired the young lady.
‘“Because your mouth looks so beautiful when you speak,” rejoined my uncle, “that I’m afraid I shall be rude enough to kiss it.”
‘The young lady put up her hand as if to caution my uncle not to do so, and said—No, she didn’t say anything—she smiled. When you are looking at a pair of the most delicious lips in the world, and see them gently break into a roguish smile—if you are very near them, and nobody else by—you cannot better testify your admiration of their beautiful form and colour than by kissing them at once. My uncle did so, and I honour him for it.
‘“Hark!” cried the young lady, starting. “The noise of wheels, and horses!”
‘“So it is,” said my uncle, listening. He had a good ear for wheels, and the trampling of hoofs; but there appeared to be so many horses and carriages rattling towards them, from a distance, that it was impossible to form a guess at their number. The sound was like that of fifty brakes, with six blood cattle in each.
‘“We are pursued!” cried the young lady, clasping her hands. “We are pursued. I have no hope but in you!”
‘There was such an expression of terror in her beautiful face, that my uncle made up his mind at once. He lifted her into the coach, told her not to be frightened, pressed his lips to hers once more, and then advising her to draw up the window to keep the cold air out, mounted to the box.