When we had climbed Gracious Street hill, we turned into Candlestick
Street and drove along at a brisk pace, George and I watching the houses
to note our progress.
After passing Temple Bar, the street being broader and the night very
dark, we could not distinguish the houses save when a light gleamed over
a front door now and then, and were not sure where we were until we saw
the flambeaux over Whitehall Gate scintillating through the falling snow.
Before reaching Charing Cross, one of the drivers lifted the rug which
hung across the front of the coach between us and the box and asked:--
"Did you say, sir, to take the road across the Common from
Saint-Martin's-in-the-Fields?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Then, sir, have your pistols ready, for it is the worst bloody stretch
of road about London for highwaymen, though I doubt if they be out on a
night like this."
"You're not afraid?" I asked.
"Devil a bit, sir! I'd rather fight than eat, but I thought maybe your
honors would rather eat."
He cracked his whip, and soon we were over the dangerous ground,
travelling along on the Oxford Road at a fine gallop. On reaching the
open country the wind gave us its full force, there being no doors to our
coach, and soon our rugs were covered with snow. But George and I were
wrapped to our chins, and Bettina nestled cozily down in her corner
untouched by the storm.
After leaving Westminster, we had no means of knowing our rate of
progress, for there were no houses near the road, and, if there had been,
we should not have known them.
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