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The mail is just ready to start; we pay our fare, and, after seeing our luggage carefully deposited in the recesses of the boot, we mount beside the red-faced, much-becoated individual who is flickering his whip in idle listlessness on the box; the guard gives a triumphal shout on his short tin horn, the flickering of the whip ceases, the horses snort and paw, and finally, in a tempest of sound and a whirlwind of dust, we career onward from the Saracen's head, and watch the stepping of the stately team with pride and exultation a hundred and forty miles before us, and thirteen hours on the road.
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