Again the white-robed Druids filed past me, again I saw that improbable mistletoe cut from that impossible oak, and again cold chills ran down my back with the first strain of the recitative.

The thumping springs essayed to beat time, and the private-box-like obscurity of the vehicle lent a cheap enchantment to the view.

But it was a vast improvement upon my past experience, and I hugged the fond delusion.
My fears for the driver were dissipated with the rising moon.

A familiar sound had assured me of his presence in the full possession of at least one of his most important functions.

Frequent and full expectoration convinced me that his lips were as yet not sealed by the gag of highwaymen, and soothed my anxious ear.