"But I shall lose my way in the dark."
"You do not belong to these parts?"
"No."
"And it is a cross-road; stay, sir," the road-mender continued; "will you let me give you a piece of advice? Your horse is tired, so return to Tinques, where there is a good inn; sleep there, and go to Arras to-morrow."
"I must be there to-night."
"That is different. In that case go back to the inn all the same, and hire a second horse. The stable boy will act as your guide across the country."
He took the road-mender's advice, turned back, and half an hour after passed the same spot at a sharp trot with a strong second horse. A stable lad, who called himself a postilion, was sitting on the shafts of the cart. Still he felt that he had lost time, for it was now dark. They entered the cross-road, and it soon became frightful; the cart tumbled from one rut into another, but he said to the postilion,—
"Keep on at a trot, and I will give you a double fee."
In one of the jolts the whipple-tree broke.
"The whipple-tree is broken, sir," said the postilion, "and I do not know how to fasten my horse, and the road is very bad by night. If you will go back and sleep at Tinques, we can get to Arras at an early hour to-morrow."