“It is a travelling-carriage. I see the lamps,” cried one of the men, as he stood at the door and looked landward. “They may as well keep the road; there's no crossing the Magra to-night!”
By this time the postilions' whips commenced that chorus of cracking by which they are accustomed to announce all arrivals of importance.
“Tell them to go back, Beppo,” said the chief of the raftsmen to one of his party. “If we might try to cross with the mail-bags in a boat, there's not one of us would attempt the passage on the raft.”
To judge from the increased noise and uproar, the travellers' impatience had now reached its highest point; but to this a slight lull succeeded, probably occasioned by the parley with the boatman.
“They'll give us five Napoleons for the job,” said Beppo, entering, and addressing his Chief.
“Per Dio, that won't support our families if we leave them fatherless,” muttered the other. “Who and what are they that can't wait till morning?”
“Who knows?” said Beppo, with a genuine shrug of native indifference. “Princes, belike!”
“Princes or beggars, we all have lives to save!” mumbled out an old man, as he reseated himself by the fire. Meanwhile the courier had entered the hut, and was in earnest negotiation with the chief, who, however, showed no disposition to run the hazard of the attempt.
“Are you all cowards alike?” said the courier, in all the insolence of his privileged order; “or is it a young fellow of your stamp that shrinks from the risk of a wet jacket?”
This speech was addressed to the youth, whom he had mistaken for one of the raftsmen.