Presently--after half a mile or so--a roar on the right hand. Mrs.
Melrose screamed again, only to be once more savagely silenced by her
husband. It was the roar of the mill-race approaching the weir, over
which it was rushing in sheets of foam. The swollen river, a thunderous
whiteness beside the road, seemed every moment as if it must break
through the raised bank, and sweep carriage and horses into its own abyss
of fury. Mrs. Melrose was now too terrified to cry out. She sat
motionless and quivering, her baby on her lap, her white pointed face and
straining eyes touched every now and then by a ghostly gleam from the
lanterns. Beside her--whispering occasional words in Italian to her
mistress--sat the Italian nurse, pale too, but motionless, a woman from
the Campagna, of a Roman port and dignity, who would have scorned to give
the master whom she detested any excuse for dubbing her a weakling.

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.