"Sir John Scoresby's, Madam."
"A baronet of three years later," observed Lady Ingram, quietly sinking back into her seat; "it is impossible to give way."
"Ah, Madame!" faltered the bonne, in a shrill key. "Madame will renounce her right? We shall be over! We shall be dead!"
"Impossible, my good Thérèse," was the placid answer. "I know what is due to myself and to others. To a baronet of one day earlier I should of course give place without a word; but to one of a day later—impossible!" replied Lady Ingram, waving her hands with an air of utter finality.
"But if we are all killed?" faintly shrieked Thérèse.
"Absurd!" said Lady Ingram. "But if I were, Thérèse, know that I should have the consolation of dying in the discharge of my duty. No soldier can do more."
"Ah! Madame is so high and philosophical!" lamented Thérèse. "Madame has the grand thoughts! C'est magnifique! But we others, who are but little people, and cannot console ourselves—hélas!"
Meanwhile the battle was raging outside the coach. Shouts of "Scoresby!" and "Ingram!" violent lashings of the struggling horses, oaths and execrations, at last the flashing of daggers. When things arrived at this point, Lady Ingram again let down the glass, which she had drawn up, and Celia, like a coward, shut her eyes and put her hands over her ears. Thérèse was screaming hysterically.
"Ah!" remarked the Baronet's widow, in a tone of satisfaction, replacing the window, "we shall get on now—William has stabbed the other coachman. Thérèse, give over screaming in that way—so very unnecessary! and Celia, my dear, do not put yourself in that absurd position—it is like a coward!"
"But the man, Madam!—the poor coachman!—is he killed?" questioned Celia, in a tone of horror.