On they rushed with a fine disdain for poor little Charos, whose village steeple appeared and disappeared like a flash of lightning.

The road was broad and level and _Uncle Sam_ sped along amid a cloud of dust, the bordering trees and houses flying away behind like dried leaves in a hurricane.

The rider's hair was fluttering like a victorious emblem, his eyes fixed with a wild intensity.
"We'd get arrested for this in America," he muttered; "we--we should worry." It was little _Uncle Sam_ cared for the traffic laws of America.
Around the outskirts of Teurley they swept and into the broad highway like a pair of demons, and a muleteer, seeing discretion to be the better part of valor, drove his team well to the side--far enough, even, to escape any devilish contamination which this unearthly apparition might diffuse.
They had reached a broad highway, one of those noble roads which Napoleon had made.

They could not go wrong now.

They passed a luxurious chateau, then a great hotel where people haled them in French.