On such subjects rolled his thoughts, one following another, innumerable, like the waves of an overflowing sea, while mile after mile of the way went by. The night was dark and warm; one of those dull, sultry spring nights, when the clouds seem to wrap the whole earth in a dull, damp pall, shutting out the breath of heaven. The windows were all down, and Chandos gazed forth upon the darkness, finding something therein congenial to the heavy obscurity of his own fate, offering nothing to interrupt the gloomy current of his thoughts, yet tranquillizing them with a solemn stillness. "Mr. Tracy I must see," he thought; "for we have business to settle: and Rose I will endeavour to see, that I may know, or at least guess at her feelings. But I will not try to bind her to anything. It would be cruel--ungenerous. No, no; my fate must be cleared of these dark clouds, before I dare ask her to walk forth under the same sky as myself." And then he thought of leaving her--perhaps, of losing her--of never seeing that fair face, that sweet smile again--of hearing that she was united to another. And his heart was very bitter. On, on, rolled the chaise, as quick as the post-boy could induce the horses to go. It was a long stage, a dark night, and a weary way back. He wished it was over, and his boots off. They passed through Milltown, and rattled over Longheath, then down they went into stony Langburn, and then slowly up the hill again. When they got to the top, the horses were once more put into a brisk pace, and away they went over the downs, with darkness all around them, and the road hardly distinguishable from the turf. But still the post-boy kept upon his way, knowing the ground by habit, in the night as well as in the day. At length they went rapidly down the hill near the bottom of which stands the thirteenth milestone from S----, and just as the chaise crossed the little rivulet which winds on through the valley, Chandos felt a sudden jerk, and then a depression of the vehicle. A grating sound followed, while the horses pulled on for a yard or two, and then the chaise stopped. The post-boy got down and poked his head under the carriage, swore a little, and approaching the door, told the traveller that the axle was broken. "That is bad news, indeed," said Chandos Winslow. "How far are we from an inn?" "About three miles, Sir," replied the man; "but if you just go back to the stone, and take the path to the right, it will save you half-a-mile. I must get the horses out, and leave the shay here; but I'll put your portmanteau on the off horse, and get it up that way." "But can I miss the road?" asked Chandos. "It is long since I was in this part of the country." "Lord bless you, Sir; you can't miss it, no how," rejoined the man; "it is as straight as a line. You just go by the old, tumble-down mill, and then half-a-mile further you come to the church, and then--"