st of the time each in a
corner of the carriage, and after the start from St. Andre-le-Gaz,
comforted with hot coffee and fresh bread and the prospect of Lyons now
only some sixty kilometres away, Crystal settled herself against the
cushions and tried to get some sleep.

The incessant shaking of the carriage, the rattle of harness and wheels,
the cracking of the postillions' whips, all contributed to making her
head ache, and to chase slumber away. But gradually her thoughts became
more confused, as the dim winter twilight gradually faded into night and
a veil of impenetrable blackness spread itself outside the windows of
the coach.

The northeasterly wind had not abated: it whistled mournfully through
the cracks in the woodwork of the carriage and made the windows rattle
in their framework. On the box the coachman had much ado to see well
ahead of him, as the vapour which rose from the flanks and shoulders of
his steaming horses effectually blurred every outline on the road. The
carriage lanthorns threw a weird and feeble light upon the ever-growing
darkness. To right and left the bare and frozen common land stretched
its lonely vastness to some distant horizon unseen.

VI

Suddenly the cumbrous vehicle gave a terrific lurch, which sent the
unsuspecting Jeanne flying into Mme. la Duchesse's lap and threw Crystal
with equal violence against her father's knees. There was much cracking
of whips, loud calls and louder oaths from coachman and postillions,
much creaking and groaning of wheels, another lurch--more feeble this
time--more groaning, more creaking, more oaths and finally the coach
with a final quivering as it were of all its parts settled down to an
ominous standstill.

Whereafter the oaths sounded more muffled, while there was a scampering
down from the high altitude of the coachman's box and a confused murmur
of voices.

It was then close on eight o'clock: Lyons was distant still some dozen
miles or so--and the night by now was darker than pitch.

M. le Comte, roused from fitful slumbers and trying to gather his
wandering wits, put his head out of the window: "What is it, Pierre?" he
called out loudly. "What has happened?"

"It's this confounded ditch, M. le Comte," came in a gruff voice from
out the darkness. "I didn't know the bridge had entirely broken down.
This sacre government will not look after the roads properly."

"Are you there, Maurice?" called the Comte.

But strangely enough there c