The fire on the hearth went out; the smoking embers glimmered under feathery ashes. Grahame entered, carrying a lantern.
"Come," he whispered. "Poor little thing!—can't I help you, Marche? Wait; here's a rug. So—wrap it around her feet. Can you carry her? Then follow; here, touch my coat—I'm going to put out the light in my lantern. Now—gently. Here we are."
Jack climbed into the post-chaise; Grahame, holding Lorraine in his arms, leaned in, and Jack took her again. She had not awakened.
"Brocard and I are going to sit in front," whispered Grahame. "Is all right within?"
"Yes," nodded Jack.
The chaise moved on for a moment, then suddenly stopped with a jerk.
Jack heard Grahame whisper, "Sit still, you fool! I've got passes; sit still!"
"Let go!" murmured Brocard.
"Sit still!" repeated Grahame, in an angry whisper; "it's all right, I tell you. Be silent!"
There was a noiseless struggle, a curse half breathed, then a figure slipped from the chaise into the road.