"Noa, for sure!" he said, patting the papers affectionately. "Mum’s the word! I’ll do your bidding, sir, and the papers’ll be safe with me, seeing it’s writ on them that I’m to get a guinea." "Exactly. So you mustn’t lose them, you know." "Noa! noa! I bain’t afeeard o’ that, nor of the highwaymen; and Beau Brocade wouldn’t touch the loikes o’ me, bless ’im. But Lordy! Lordy! these be ’mazing times." Already Sir Humphrey was pushing him impatiently out of the hut. "And here," added his Honour, pressing a piece of money into the shepherd’s hand, "here’s half-a-crown to keep you on the go." "Thank ’ee, sir, and if you think t’ sheep will be all right..." "Oh, hang the sheep!..." "All right, sir ... if Master Mittachip be satisfied ... and I’ll leave t’ dog to look after t’ sheep." He took up his long, knotted stick, and still shaking his head and muttering "Lordy! Lordy!" the worthy shepherd slowly began to wend his way along the footpath, which from this point leads straight to Wirksworth. Sir Humphrey watched the quaint, wizened figure for a few seconds, until it disappeared in the gloom, then he listened for awhile. All round him the Heath was silent and at peace, the plaintive bleating of the sheep in the pen added a note of subdued melancholy to the vast and impressive stillness. Only from far there came the weird echo of hound and men on the hunt. His Honour swore a round oath. "Zounds!" he muttered, "the rogue must be hard pressed, and he’s not like to give us further trouble. Even if he come on us now, eh, you old scarecrow? ... the letters are safe at last! What?" "Lud preserve me!" sighed the attorney, "but I hope so." "Back to Brassington then," quoth Sir Humphrey, lustily. "Beau Brocade can attack us now, eh? Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed in his wonted boisterous way, "methinks we have outwitted that gallant highwayman after all." "For sure, Sir Humphrey," echoed Mittachip, who was meekly following his Honour’s lead across the road to where their horses were in readiness for them. "As for my Lady Patience! ... Ha!" said his Honour, jovially, "her brother’s life is ... well! ... in my hands, to save or to destroy, according as she will frown on me or smile. But meseems her ladyship will have to smile, eh?" He laughed pleasantly, for he was in exceedingly good temper just now. "As for that chivalrous Beau Brocade," he added as he hoisted himself into the saddle, "he shall, an I mistake not, dangle on a gibbet before another nightfall." "Hark!" he added, as the yelping of the bloodhound once more woke the silent Moor with its eerie echo. Mittachip’s scanty locks literally stood up beneath his bob-tail wig. Even Sir Humphrey could not altogether repress a shudder as he listened to the shouts, the cries, the snarls, which were rapidly drawing nearer. "We should have waited to be in at the death," he said, with enforced gaiety. "Meseems our fox is being run to earth at last."