The horses were urged on as fast as they could go, and in about a quarter of an hour they came up with the regiment, under whose guardianship they crossed the dreaded Hounslow Heath without fear of molestation. At Hammersmith the coach stopped again. After a little parley between William and the innkeeper, four men came out of the inn with torches in their hands. Two of them placed themselves on each side of the coach, and they slowly journeyed on again. It was quite dark now. Gradually the road became busier and more noisy, and houses appeared lining it at intervals. At length they had fairly entered the metropolis. The coach worked its way slowly along the muddy streets, for it had been raining since they left Staines, and the shouts of the linkmen were almost deafening. As they proceeded, another coach suddenly appeared and attempted to pass them. This could not be permitted. The coachman whipped his horses, the linkmen screamed, the great coach swayed to and fro with the unusual pace. Lady Ingram opened the window and looked out, while the maid clasped her hands and shrieked in her own tongue that she was killed. "Not at all, _ma bonne_," was the calm response of the mistress. Then turning to Celia, she asked, "You are not afraid?" "Not unless you tell me there is something to fear, Madam," answered Celia, in the quiescence rather of ignorance than of courage. "Ah! I like that answer," replied Lady Ingram, smiling her approval, and patting Celia's cheek. "There is good metal in you, _ma chére_; it is only the work that asks the polishing." Celia wondered what the process of polishing would be, and into what kind of creature she would find herself transmuted when it was finished. "William," said Lady Ingram, putting her head out of the window, "whose coach is that other?" "Sir John Scoresby's, Madam." "A baronet of three years later," observed Lady Ingram, quietly sinking back into her seat; "it is impossible to give way." "Ah, Madame!" faltered the _bonne_, in a shrill key. "Madame will renounce her right? We shall be over! We shall be dead!" "Impossible, my good Thérèse," was the placid answer. "I know what is due to myself and to others. To a baronet of one day earlier I should of course give place without a word; but to one of a day later--impossible!" replied Lady Ingram, waving her hands with an air of utter finality. "But if we are all killed?" faintly shrieked Thérèse. "Absurd!" said Lady Ingram. "But if I were, Thérèse, know that I should have the consolation of dying in the discharge of my duty. No soldier can do more." "Ah! Madame is so high and philosophical!" lamented Thérèse. "Madame has the grand thoughts! _C'est magnifique_! But we others, who are but little people, and cannot console ourselves--hélas!"