But scarcely a hundred yards farther on there was a crash and a shock and Prue was lying in a heap in the overturned chaise. The shouts of the postboys, the trampling of the startled horses mingled with her screams of pain and terror—then other voices added to the tumult and in the midst of it all the door was forced open and Prue lifted out and gently deposited on the roadside.
"The lady has fainted," said a voice that sounded familiar. "Search for water, one of you boys; is there no brook or stream near by?"
"Nothing nearer than the river that I knows of, your Honor," said the man, "'less there's some in yon ditch—"
"You need seek no ditch-water for me," said Prue, sitting up and struggling with the wraps in which her head was entangled. "Since you are there, Sir Geoffrey, you may as well lend me some assistance."
"Good Gad! Lady Prue!" cried the baronet, with a vast show of astonishment. "By what happy chance am I fortunate enough to be of use to you? Methought you were safe in Tunbridge hours ago."
"No doubt that is why you have been following my carriage ever since I left Seven Oaks," she retorted. "'Tis strange you should also have taken a short cut which seems to lead to nowhere in particular!"
"It has led you into an awkward predicament, my dearest Prudence," he replied gravely. "I shudder to think of the straits to which you would have been reduced, had I not been—quite providentially—passing at the critical moment."
"Well, as Providence has been kind enough to send me a knight-errant, perhaps he will tell me where I am and how far it is to the next post-house," said Prue, not very graciously, for Sir Geoffrey's presence was too opportune to appear quite unpremeditated.
"The next post-house?" he reflected. "Post-boy, how far is the next post-house?"
"Four mile or thereabout, your Honor," the man returned, beginning to unstrap the valises.