“No, you don't,” said Benham presently, and again their career became erratic for a time as after a slight struggle he replaced the apron over the knees of the deposed driver. It had been furtively released. After that Benham kept an eye on it that might have been better devoted to the road.
The road went down in a series of curves and corners. Now and then there were pacific interludes when it might have been almost any road. Then, again, it became specifically an Italian mountain road. Now and then only a row of all too infrequent granite stumps separated them from a sheer precipice. Some of the corners were miraculous, and once they had a wheel in a ditch for a time, they shaved the parapet of a bridge over a gorge and they drove a cyclist into a patch of maize, they narrowly missed a goat and jumped three gullies, thrice the horse stumbled and was jerked up in time, there were sickening moments, and withal they got down to Piedimulera unbroken and unspilt. It helped perhaps that the brake, with its handle like a barrel organ, had been screwed up before Benham took control. And when they were fairly on the level outside the town Benham suddenly pulled up, relinquished the driving into the proper hands and came into the carriage with Amanda.
“Safe now,” he said compactly.
The driver appeared to be murmuring prayers very softly as he examined the brake.
Amanda was struggling with profound problems. “Why didn't you drive down in the first place?” she asked. “Without going back.”
“The landlord annoyed me,” he said. “I had to go back.... I wish I had kicked him. Hairy beast! If anything had happened, you see, he would have had his mean money. I couldn't bear to leave him.”
“And why didn't you let HIM drive?” She indicated the driver by a motion of the head.
“I was angry,” said Benham. “I was angry at the whole thing.”
“Still—”
“You see I think I did that because he might have jumped off if I hadn't been up there to prevent him—I mean if we had had a smash. I didn't want him to get out of it.”