Once more our resolute driver, with an authoritative 'All ready!' summoned us to depart.
'Amaziah, bring the light around here!' cried the Englishman, who seemed to know the names of every one at these stopping places by a sort of intuition.
'Amaziah' promptly obeyed, and by the aid of his lantern I settled myself for the last stage of my journey. To the Scotchman's comfort, the missing buffalo was produced here, according to the driver's promise.
The Frenchman, who had been over the 'line' before, had hinted that four gray horses were to take us into Bangor; but it seemed to be the fate of three only.
It was then not far from three o'clock, and we had more than twenty miles before us. As the distance lessened, my excitement increased. I became so feverish that I could no longer bear my mittens on my hands. Anxiety and fatigue produced a nervous exhaustion, and the harsh grating of the 'drags' as we descended the oft-recurring hills, threw me into an uncontrollable tremor. I was too tired to sleep—too tired, almost, to think. Strength, sense, hope seemed to lose themselves in my utter weariness. It seemed at times to become a question whether I should even live to reach my destination.
My companions cheered and comforted me as best they could, with never-to-be-forgotten kindness. We stopped once to throw out a mailbag, and I thought, from the appearance of the place as well as I could see it, that we were already on the outskirts of Bangor.
'What place is this?' the Englishman inquired.
'Eddington Bend,' replied the driver.
'How far from Bangor?'
'Sixteen miles.'