I had tied on the direction-card with a piece of green ribbon, that I might know it at a glance: not a fringe or fragment of green was perceptible.
Every package was removed; every tin-case and brown-paper parcel; the oilcloth cover was lifted; I saw with distinct vision that not an umbrella, cloak, cane, hat-box or band-box remained.
And my portmanteau, with my few clothes and little pocket-book enclasping the remnant of my fifteen pounds, where were they?
I ask this question now, but I could not ask it then.

I could say nothing whatever; not possessing a phrase of _speaking_ French: and it was French, and French only, the whole world seemed now gabbling around me.

_What_ should I do?
Approaching the conductor, I just laid my hand on his arm, pointed to a trunk, thence to the diligence-roof, and tried to express a question with my eyes.

He misunderstood me, seized the trunk indicated, and was about to hoist it on the vehicle.
"Let that alone--will you ?" said a voice in good English; then, in correction, "Qu'est-ce que vous faites donc?
Cette malle est a moi." But I had heard the Fatherland accents; they rejoiced my heart; I turned: "Sir," said I, appealing to the stranger, without, in my distress, noticing what he was like, "I cannot speak French.

May I entreat you to ask this man what he has done with my trunk ?" Without discriminating, for the moment, what sort of face it was to which my eyes were raised and on which they were fixed, I felt in its expression half-surprise at my appeal and half-doubt of the wisdom of interference.
"_Do_ ask him; I would do as much for you," said I.
I don't know whether he smiled, but he said in a gentlemanly tone--that is to say, a tone not hard nor terrifying,--"What sort of trunk was yours ?" I described it, including in my description the green ribbon.