"This way!" I called again, "this way!" The words seemed to reassure the fellow, for the light advanced once more, and as he came up, I made him out to be a postilion by his dress, and the light he carried was the lanthorn of a chaise. "Why—sir!" he began, looking me up and down, by the light of his lanthorn, "strike me lucky if I'd ha' knowed ye! you looks as if—oh, Lord!" "What is it?" said I, wiping the rain from my eyes again. The Postilion's answer was to lower his lanthorn towards the face of him who lay on the ground between us, and point. Now, looking where he pointed, I started suddenly backwards, and shivered, with a strange stirring of the flesh. For I saw a pale face with a streak of blood upon the cheek—there was blood upon my own; a face framed in lank hair, thick and black—as was my own; a pale, aquiline face, with a prominent nose, and long, cleft chin—even as my own. So, as I stood looking down upon this face, my breath caught, and my flesh crept, for indeed, I might have been looking into a mirror—the face was the face of myself. CHAPTER II THE POSTILION "Good Lord!" exclaimed the Postilion, and fell back a step. "Well?" said I, meeting his astonished look as carelessly as I might. "Lord love me!" said the Postilion. "What now?" I inquired. "I never see such a thing as this 'ere," said he, alternately glancing from me down to the outstretched figure at my feet, "if it's bewitchments, or only enchantments, I don't like it—strike me pink if I do!" "What do you mean?" "Eyes," continued the Postilion slowly and heavily, and with his glance wandering still—"eyes, same—nose, identical—mouth, when not bloody, same—hair, same—figure, same—no, I don't like it—it's onnat'ral! tha' 's what it is." "Come, come," I broke in, somewhat testily, "don't stand there staring like a fool—you see this gentleman is hurt." "Onnat'ral 's the word!" went on the Postilion, more as though speaking his thoughts aloud than addressing me, "it's a onnat'ral night to begin with—seed a many bad uns in my time, but nothing to ekal this 'ere, that I lost my way aren't to be wondered at; then him, and her a-jumping out o' the chaise and a-running off into the thick o' the storm—that's onnat'ral in the second place! and then, his face, and your face—that's the most onnat'rallest part of it all—likewise, I never see one man in two suits o' clothes afore, nor yet a-standing up, and a-laying down both at the same i-dentical minute—onnat'ral's the word—and—I'm a-going." "Stop!" said I, as he began to move away. "Not on no account!" "Then I must make you," said I, and doubled my fists. The Postilion eyed me over from head to foot, and paused, irresolute. "What might you be wanting with a peaceable, civil-spoke cove like me?" he inquired. "Where is your chaise?" "Up in the lane, som'eres over yonder," answered he, with a vague jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.