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Updated: May 12, 2025
With a mighty strain the Wanderer lifted it as he rose, it was a weight of a chariot's burden, and poising it, he hurled it straight at the breast of the Laestrygon, who had drawn back, whirling his axe, before he smote another blow.
And now, puffing sore, the clergyman put in his plea, not for delay, the Duke's face forbade that, but that all be done with ceremony. "If a word more be said, I send for the Archbishop!" swears his Grace, flushed and handsome. "My chariot's at the door. Bundle in all who can. Madam, allow me." He drew the bride's hand to his, and preceded them down the stair, holding it high as in a minuet.
A few steps farther and suddenly a loud report was heard from the grove, a bullet sped through the air, and struck the oxen's yoke happily without doing any damage, further than causing the usually quiet, steady-going beasts to swerve violently to one side when fortunately a considerable heap of sand prevented the chariot's being overturned into the ditch beside the road.
The woman who had begun it was swept to her feet; she stood with her tinsel gayety of apparel making her tragic ebony face infinitely grotesque and tormented while her tone rose in a clear emotional soprano: "Children of Israel, unhappy slaves, Good tidings, good tidings, For that chariot's coming, God's chariot's coming, ... coming, ........... chariot out of Egypt."
I fear not your hard Words, Sir, but dare aloud pronounce, if Donna Mopsophil like me, the Farmer, as well as I like her, 'tis a Match, and my Chariot's ready at the Gate to bear her off, d'ye see. Mop. Scar. Mop. A City Apothecary, a most genteel Calling Which shall I chuse? Seignior Apothecary, I'll not expostulate the circumstantial Reasons that have occasion'd me this Honour. Scar.
The magic of her feeling swept like a flame over the room; shrill mirth, mocking calls, curses were bound in a louder and louder volume of hope and praise. The negroes were on their feet, swaying in the hysterical contagion of melody, the unutterable longing of their alien isolation. "God's chariot's coming."
My wife my sweetheart!" 'Twas half after twelve when Mrs Gunning returned with Maria, being a prudent woman, and resolved that, if the criminal did not hang himself, it should not be for want of rope. "The chariot's at the door and the light still in the parlour!" she whispered; "sure, he can't be there still? Heaven send he be not drunk and asleep. 'Twas mere folly to leave the wine!"
I thought so too, but they are disappear'd, and the wing'd Chariot's fled. Enter Keplair and Galileus. Bell. See, Sir, they approach. Kep. Most reverend Sir, we, from the upper World, thus low salute you Keplair and Galileus we are call'd, sent as Interpreters to Great Iredonozor, the Emperor of the Moon, who is descending. Doct.
Marcus, who had had to cling to the sides of the chariot to save himself from being thrown out, turned sharply to learn the meaning of his old comrade's cry, and he was just in time to see him throw himself over the chariot's side, evidently to hurry to the help of the Roman officer and his few men, who, completely outnumbered, were being beaten down by two or three times their number of Gauls.
Catherine spied Bert's two mischievous eyes looking around the corner of the building. In an instant she had despatched him to clear the room of its horror, and was bringing Dot, a protesting prisoner, to join the group. "Where did you come from?" asked every one, while Dorcas collected herself. "O, our chariot's just outside," answered Dot.
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