"Here!" said I, and, moving aside, pointed to the shadow.
The Postilion stepped nearer, lowering his lanthorns, then staggered blindly backward.
"Lord!" he whimpered, "Lord love me!" and stood staring, with dropped jaw.
"Where is your chaise?"
"Up yonder—yonder—in the lane," he mumbled, his eyes still fixed.
"Then help me to carry him there."
"No, no—I dursn't touch it—I can't—not me—not me!"
"I think you will," said I, and took the pistol from my pocket.
"Ain't one enough for to-night?" he muttered; "put it away—I'll come—I'll do it—put it away." So I dropped the weapon back into my pocket while the Postilion, shivering violently, stooped with me above the inanimate figure, and, with our limp burden between us, we staggered and stumbled up the path, and along the lane to where stood a light traveling chaise.
"'E ain't likely to come to this time, I'm thinkin'!" said the Postilion, mopping the sweat from his brow and grinning with pallid lips, after we had got our burden into the vehicle; "no, 'e ain't likely to wake up no more, nor yet 'curse my 'ead off'—this side o' Jordan."