One was Scots, one was English, and the owner of the coach, a Frenchman.
The first was Ian Rullock.
"Good weather for your crossing, monsieur!" remarked the person of quality.

He was so markedly of position that the two men whom he had graciously offered to bring a mile upon their way, and who also were younger men, answered with deference and followed in their speech only the lines indicated.
"It promises fair, sir," said Ian.

"In three days Dunkirk, then smooth seas! Good omens everywhere!" "You do not voyage under your own name ?" "After to-morrow, sir, I am Robert Bonshaw, a Scots physician." "Ah, well, good fortune to you, and to the exalted person you serve!" The coach, cumbrous and stately, drawn by four white horses, left the bridge and came under old palace walls, and thence by narrow streets advanced toward the great house of its owner.

Outside was the numerous throng, the scattering to this side and that of the imperiled foot travelers.

The coach stopped.
"Here is the street you would reach!" said the helpful person of quality.
A footman held open the door; the Scot and the Englishman gave proper expression of gratitude to their benefactor, descended to earth, turned again to bow low, and waited bareheaded till the great machine was once more in motion and monseigneur's wig, countenance, and velvet coat grew things of the past.