But the horses pulled bravely, the noise and the flood were left behind,
and a bit of ascending road brought the travellers on to dry land again.
The carriage stopped. The two labourers who had guided them approached
the window, which Melrose had let down.
"Yo'll do now!" they shouted with cheerful faces. "You've nobbut to do
but keep straight on, an' yo'll be at t' Tower in a coople o' miles."
"Thank you, my men, thank you. Here's a drink for you," said Melrose,
stretching out his hand.
The foremost labourer took the coin and held it to the lantern. He burst
into rough laughter.
"Saxpence! My word, Jim!--here's a gentleman wot's free wi' his muny.
Saxpence! Two men--and two lanterns--fur t' best part of a mile! We're
goin' cheap to-night, Jim. Gude meet to yer, sir, an' next time yo'
may droon for me!"
"Saxpence!" The lad behind also applied his lantern to the coin. "Gie it
me, Bob!" And raising it with a scornful gesture he flung it into the
river. Then standing still, with their hands on their hips, the light
from the lanterns on the ground breaking over their ruddy rain-washed
faces, they poured out a stream of jeers in broad Cumbrian, from which
the coachman, angrily urged on by Melrose, escaped as quickly as he
could.
"Insolent boors!" said Melrose as men and flood disappeared from view.
"What did we want with them after all? It was only a device for bleeding
us."
Mrs. Melrose awoke from her trance of terror with a quavering breath.
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