"Eyes," continued the Postilion slowly and heavily, and with his glance wandering still—"eyes, same—nose, identical—mouth, when not bloody, same—hair, same—figure, same—no, I don't like it—it's onnat'ral! tha' 's what it is."
"Come, come," I broke in, somewhat testily, "don't stand there staring like a fool—you see this gentleman is hurt."
"Onnat'ral 's the word!" went on the Postilion, more as though speaking his thoughts aloud than addressing me, "it's a onnat'ral night to begin with—seed a many bad uns in my time, but nothing to ekal this 'ere, that I lost my way aren't to be wondered at; then him, and her a-jumping out o' the chaise and a-running off into the thick o' the storm—that's onnat'ral in the second place! and then, his face, and your face—that's the most onnat'rallest part of it all—likewise, I never see one man in two suits o' clothes afore, nor yet a-standing up, and a-laying down both at the same i-dentical minute—onnat'ral's the word—and—I'm a-going."
"Stop!" said I, as he began to move away.
"Not on no account!"
"Then I must make you," said I, and doubled my fists.
The Postilion eyed me over from head to foot, and paused, irresolute.
"What might you be wanting with a peaceable, civil-spoke cove like me?" he inquired.
"Where is your chaise?"
"Up in the lane, som'eres over yonder," answered he, with a vague jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.