CHAPTER II THE POSTILION
"Good Lord!" exclaimed the Postilion, and fell back a step.
"Well?" said I, meeting his astonished look as carelessly as I might.
"Lord love me!" said the Postilion.
"What now?" I inquired.
"I never see such a thing as this 'ere," said he, alternately glancing from me down to the outstretched figure at my feet, "if it's bewitchments, or only enchantments, I don't like it—strike me pink if I do!"
"What do you mean?"
"Eyes," continued the Postilion slowly and heavily, and with his glance wandering still—"eyes, same—nose, identical—mouth, when not bloody, same—hair, same—figure, same—no, I don't like it—it's onnat'ral! tha' 's what it is."
"Come, come," I broke in, somewhat testily, "don't stand there staring like a fool—you see this gentleman is hurt."
"O
