"Pills!—throw them down to me!" The valet tremblingly extracted from his side-pocket a little box, which he threw down and Lovett caught in his hand.
He opened the box, counted the pills—
"One,—two,—four,—twelve,—Aha!" He reopened the carriage door.
"Are these your pills, my Lord?"
The wondering peer, who had begun to resettle himself in the corner of his carriage, answered, 'that they were!'
"My Lord, I see you are in a high state of fever; you were a little delirious just now when you snapped a pistol in your friend's face. Permit me to recommend you a prescription—swallow off all these pills!"
"My God!" cried the traveller, startled into earnestness: "What do you mean?—twelve of those pills would kill a man."
"Hear him!" said the robber, appealing to his comrades who roared with laughter, "What, my Lord, would you rebel against your doctor?—Fie, fie! be persuaded."
