"Turn back! Turn back!" cried George to the driver. "Turn back, and whip up your horses."
"We're there, signor. What alarms you?"
"Turn back!"
The injunction was so imperative that the driver turned round his horses amidst the deafening cries.
"Whip them up! Whip them up!"
From the top to the bottom of the hill the carriage seemed, among the clouds of thick dust, pierced every now and then by a hoarse yell.
"Where are we going?" asked the driver, bending down.
"Over there, over there, near the sea! Whip them up!"
George was supporting Hippolyte, who had almost fainted, without trying to revive her. He had but a confused sensation of all that was going on. Real images, and fantastic images, whirled around his brain and gave him hallucinations. A continual buzzing filled his ears, and prevented him from hearing any other sound distinctly. His heart was oppressed with a keen anguish, as in the nightmare—the anguish to emerge from the zone of this horrible dream, the anguish to recover his first lucidity, to feel the loved creature palpitate on his breast, and to see once more the tender smile.
Viva Maria!