"We are lost!" he shouted in an agony; and O'Toole saw the hind wheel of the berlin slip off the road and revolve for the fraction of a second in the air.

He was already putting his horse at the precipice as though it was a ditch to be jumped, when the berlin made, to his astonished eyes, an effort to recover its balance like a live thing.

It seemed to spring sideways from the brink of the precipice.

It not only seemed, it did spring; and O'Toole, drawing rein, in the great revulsion of his feelings, saw, as he rocked unsteadily in his saddle, the carriage tearing safe and unhurt down the very centre of the road.
O'Toole set his spurs to his horse and galloped after it.

The postillion looked back and laughed.
"Trinkgeldt!" he cried.
O'Toole swore loudly, and getting level beat him with his whip.