The horses seemed to have wings, and the coach flew over the cobblestones like the chariot of thunder rumbling past.

The conductor became alarmed.
"Hey, Master Antoine," cried he, "are you drunk ?" "Drunk?
fine drinking!" replied Montbar; "I dined on a beetroot salad." "Damn him! If he goes like that," cried Roland, thrusting his head through the window, "the escort can't keep up." "You hear what he says!" shrieked the conductor.
"No," replied Montbar, "I don't." "Well, he says that if you keep this up the escort can't follow." "Is there an escort ?" asked Montbar.
"Of course; we're carrying government money." "That's different; you ought to have said so at first." But instead of slacking his pace the coach was whirled along as before; if there was any change, it was for greater velocity than before.
"Antoine, if there's an accident, I'll shoot you through the head," shouted the conductor.
"Run along!" exclaimed Montbar; "everybody knows those pistols haven't any balls in them." "Possibly not; but mine have!" cried the police agent.
"That remains to be seen," replied Montbar, keeping on his way at the same pace without heed to these remonstrances.
On they went with the speed of lightning through the village of Varennes, then through that of La Creche and the little town of Chapelle-de-Guinchay; only half a mile further and they would reach the Maison-Blanche.

The horses were dripping, and tossed the foam from their mouths as they neighed with excitement.
Montbar glanced behind him; more than a mile back the sparks were flying from the escort's horses.

Before him was the mountainous declivity.

Down it he dashed, gathering the reins to master his horses when the time came.
The conductor had ceased expostulating, for he saw that the hand which guided the horses was firm and capable.