Meanwhile her screams increased in volume, and ascended in pitch--interrupted only by an occasional “oh Lord!” and equivalent ejaculations. It was piteous to hear her; but there was no help for it. To stop the coach was impossible; it had pressed upon the horses till, in spite of all the coachman’s exertions, they broke into a gallop, and it required his utmost efforts to keep them together. An attempt to pull up would have upset us, as sure as fate; luckily for us all Tom did not make the experiment, and the Chronometer, after running down one hill and half way up another, was stopped without accident. “How’s the lady?” asked the stout man, anxiously thrusting his head and shoulders out at one window, whilst I acted the same part at the other; and, as the sufferer got down on my side of the coach, my curiosity was first gratified. Never was figure more forlorn: her face was as pale as ashes, and her hair hung about it in all directions through heat and fright--her eyes as crazy as her hair, and her mouth wide open. “How’s the lady?” repeated the stout gentleman. As for her straw bonnet, it was like Milton’s Death, of no particular shape at all, flat where it should have been full, square where it ought to have been round, turned up instead of down, and down instead of up--it had as many corners and nubbles about it as a crusty loaf. Her shawl or scarf had twisted round and round her like a snake, and her pelisse showed as ruffled and rumpled and all awry as if she had just rolled down Greenwich Hill. “How’s the lady? I say,” bellowed the big man. One of her shoes had preferred to remain with the boot, and as the road was muddy, she stood like a Numidian crane, posturing and balancing on one leg; whilst Tom, hunting after the missing article, which declined to turn up till everything else had been taken out of “the leathern conveniency,” and as it was one of the old-fashioned boots it held plenty of luggage. “How is the lady?” was shouted again with no better success. It was evident she had not escaped with the fright merely; her hands wandered from her ribs to the small of her back, and then she rubbed each knee. It was some time before she could fetch her breath freely, but at last she mustered enough for a short exclamation. “Oh them trunks!” “How’s the lady?” shouted the fat man for the last time; for finding that it obtained no answer, he opened the door and bolted out, just in time to have the gratification of putting on the woman’s one shoe, whilst she clung with both her arms round his short neck. “There, my dear,” he said with a finishing slap on the sole. “Bless my heart, though, it’s a distressing situation! Coachman, how far is she from London?” “A good nine mile,” answered Tom. “Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed the stout man. “She can’t _do_ it!” “It’s only nine mile,” said the woman, with a sort of hysterical giggle;--“and I’m fond of walking.”