“Yes, miss,” said the postilion.

“There’s no passenger but me, is there, Jack?”

“Yes, miss, there’s someone, a gentleman, up here with us.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the voice. Then, after a moment, “Would you permit me, sir, to say a word to some friends who should be waiting for me at the roadside?”

“By all means, madam,” said Herman.

“Thank you.” And she closed the window.

It was a gloomy, depressed region. The Dartmoor Road was nothing but a dark, muddy track through the woods. The coach came to a halt. As far as the eye could see, there wasn’t a soul. She lowered the side window. “Send out a blast, Jack,” said the voice. He blew on his trumpet. The coachman reined back the horses. First off, some dead leaves fell to the ground. Then they heard someone answer. Two men—one of them young, the other old—were running along the track. The young one reached the roadside, stopped, and doffed his hat. He could have been in his twenties, but he was extremely thin and worn out. His eyes looked like they were bruised. His face, skin plastered to his skull, was the face of death itself.

“Come closer, Christopher,” said the voice. But he didn’t budge. He gave a hint of a smile and turned his gaze toward the old man, who was just coming up. This one was even more extremely wretched, but he bore his wretchedness with pride and rage. Despite his peasant garb, he’d tied an old silk scarf, embroidered with dragons, around his neck. He hurried up to the coach. His eyes were very blue and hard.

“Come now, Ardan,” said the voice, “here you are again, the way I don’t want.”

“I curse heaven, miss,” the old man answered, as he took off his hat. “Soon I won’t be able to hold back my desire to have done with this vale of tears.”

Somebody must have signaled him that there was a person on top who could hear, because he glanced up at Herman, and then carried on in muffled tones. He was complaining. And he was being heard. Only now and then, the voice would say, “Yes, yes, my good man. Yes, Ardan.” Then he fell silent.

“All right, all right,” said the voice, “you know very well he couldn’t side with anyone but O’Brien. Would you have preferred him to be for Feargus O’Connor?”

“May that one be damned, miss. I beg your pardon.”

“You curse everybody, Ardan.”

“It’s because I’ve nothing left in the world.”

“You have Christopher.”

“For how much longer, I wonder, miss.”

“Oh, very well, Ardan,” said the voice, “you are some kind of incurable old poet. William has done what he was supposed to do, and everything has turned out better than you could imagine. There’s nothing make-believe about that.”

“It’s not that I’m pretending to be miserable, miss.”

“That’s not what I was trying to say, Ardan. All right, come closer. Come on, get up on the running board.”