"Sure it cannot be--yet
it is--by my soul I cannot tell whether it be lord Martin or no." The
coachman now rose from the ground, and began with a profound bow to his
master. "And please your honour," said he, "we have made a sad day's work
of it. Your worship makes but a pitiful figure. Faugh! I think as how, if
I dared say so much, begging your honour's pardon, that your lordship
stinks." "Put him into the carriage," cried Mr. Godfrey, "and drive him
home." Lord Martin, now first recovered his tongue, and wiping away the
mud from his eyes, "And so it was you, sir, I suppose," cried he, "to whom
I am obliged for this catastrophe. But pox take me, if you shall not hear
of it. Ten thousand curses on my wayward fate! The devil take it! Death
and damnation!" During this soliloquy, the servants were employed in
placing their lord in the chariot. The coachman mounted the box, and by
this time they were out of hearing.
Mr. Godfrey and his brother now entered the house. Delia was seated in a
chair, her hair dishevelled, her features disordered, and her dress in the
most bewitching confusion. But how much were both the deliverer and the
heroine surprised, when they mutually recognised each others features! Mr.
Godfrey made Delia a very polite compliment upon her escape, and
congratulated himself, in the warmest language, for having been the
fortunate instrument.
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