"Phyllis, are you mad?" cries he, flinging his arms round me. "Your only chance is to remain quiet; Phyllis, be sensible. Sit down when I desire you."
There is an almost savage ring in his tone. He holds me fast and forces me down into my seat. I struggle with all my strength for a moment or two to free myself from his strong grasp, and then a coldness covers me, and I faint.
When my senses return to me, I find I am still in the carriage. The ponies are also to be seen, motionless in their places, except for the trembling that convulses their frames, while a fierce snort, every now and then, and tiny flecks of froth hither and thither and mingle with those already upon their backs and harness, betray their late panic. But we are safe, apparently, quite safe.
Sir Mark's arm is supporting me, while with his other hand he holds something to my lips. It is that detestable thing called brandy, and I turn my head aside.
"Take it," urges he, in a low, trembling tone; "whether you like it or not, it will do you good. Try to swallow some."
I do as I am bid, and presently, feeling better, raise myself and look around for symptoms of a smash.
"What have they done?" I ask, with a shudder, "Have they—-"
"Nothing," replies he, with a laugh that is rather forced. "It was a mere bolt. If you had not fainted you would have known it was all over in a few minutes."
"It was the whip," I whisper, still nervous.
"Yes; it was all my fault. I quite forgot Markham's caution. I have to apologize very sincerely for my mistake."