The Reverend Mr. Rashleigh gave one panting gasp, and fell back in his
seat. High living and long indolence had made him a complete craven.
Life was inestimably precious to the portly pastor of St. Pancras'.
After that one choking gasp, he sat quivering all over, like
calves'-foot jelly.
"Bandage his eyes, Sarah, while I tie his hands," said the man's voice.
"My dear sir, don't shake so; it is almost impossible to do anything
with you in this hysterical state. Now, bind his mouth, Sarah. There!
I think that will do."
Bound hands, and eyes, and mouth, half suffocated, wholly blinded, the
Reverend Raymond Rashleigh was a pitiable object at that instant. But
there was no one to pity him, no one to see him, no one to help him.
The carriage whirled on, and on, and on at dizzy speed, the wind sighing
by in long, lamentable gales, the rain dashing clamorously against the
closed glass.
Paralyzed with intense terror, Mr. Rashleigh sat trembling to that
extent that he threatened to topple off his seat.
"Pray calm yourself, my reverend friend," said that masculine voice
beside him.
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