"Thank you, my friend. I am aware of all that." But as John drove on, he remained for some time very silent.
On, across the bleak country, with the snow pelting in our faces—along roads so deserted, that our carriage-wheels made the only sound audible, and that might have been heard distinctly for miles.
All of a sudden, the horses were pulled up. Three or four ill-looking figures had started out of a ditch-bank, and caught hold of the reins.
"Holloa there!—What do you want?"
"Money."
"Let go my horses! They're spirited beasts. You'll get trampled on."
"Who cares?"
This brief colloquy passed in less than a minute. It showed at once our position—miles away from any house—on this desolate moor; showed plainly our danger—John's danger.
He himself did not seem to recognize it. He stood upright on the box seat, the whip in his hand.
"Get away, you fellows, or I must drive over you!"