Sometimes the carriage jolted one way, sometimes another, swaying furiously, and running on two side wheels as though it must every instant go over.

And yet, fast as they went, their pursuers went faster still.

The rattle of their hoofs was at their very backs, and suddenly at one of the windows there came into view the red, distended nostrils of a horse.

Slowly it drew forward, the muzzle, the eye, the ears, the mane, coming into sight as the rider still gained upon them, and then above them the fierce face of Despard and the gleam of a brass pistol barrel.
"At the horse, Despard, at the horse!" cried an authoritative voice from behind.
The pistol flashed, and the coach lurched over as one of the horses gave a convulsive spring.

But the driver still shrieked and lashed with his whip, while the carriage bounded onwards.
But now the road turned a sudden curve, and there, right in front of them, not a hundred paces away, was the Seine, running cold and still in the moonshine.