CHAPTER XXIX THE DAWN A while ago, in an agony of longing, he had cried out for a moment’s respite! for a disguise! and now there stood before him Jock Miggs in smock and broad-brimmed hat, with pipe and shepherd’s staff. His pursuers, headed by the yelping dog, were still a quarter of a mile away. Five minutes in which to do battle for his life, for his freedom, for the power to keep his oath! The plan of action had surged in his mind at first sight of the wizened little figure of the shepherd beside the further approach to the clearing. Beau Brocade drew himself up to his full height, sought and found in the pocket of his coat the black mask which he habitually wore; this he fixed to his face, then drawing a pistol from his belt, he overtook Jock Miggs, clapped him vigorously on the shoulder, and shouted lustily,— "Stand and deliver!" Jock Miggs, aroused from his pleasant meditations, threw up his hands in terror. "The Lud have mercy on my soul!" he ejaculated as he fell on his knees. "Stand and deliver!" repeated Beau Brocade, in as gruff a voice as he could command. Jock Miggs was trying to collect his scattered wits. "B ... b ... but ... kind sir!" he murmured, "y ... y ... you wouldn’t harm Jock Miggs, the shepherd ... would you?" "Quick’s the word! Now then..." "But, good sir ... Oi ... Oi ... Oi’ve got nowt to deliver..." Jock Miggs was pitiful to behold: at any other moment of his life Bathurst would have felt very sorry for the poor, scared creature, but that yelping hound was drawing desperately near and he had only a few minutes at his command. "Naught to deliver?" he said with a great show of roughness, and seizing poor Jock by the collar. "Look at your smock!" "My smock, kind sir?..." "Aye! I’ve a fancy for your smock ... so off with it ... quick!" Jock Miggs struggled up to his feet, he was beginning to gather a small modicum of courage. He had lived all his life on Brassing Moor and it was his first serious encounter with an armed gentleman of the road. Whether ’twas Beau Brocade or no he was too scared to conjecture, but he had enough experience of the Heath to know that poor folk like himself had little bodily hurt to fear from highwaymen. But of course it was always wisest to obey. As to his old smock... "He! he! he! my old smock, sir!" he laughed vaguely and nervously, "why..." "I don’t want to knock the poor old cuckoo down," murmured Bathurst to himself, "but I’ve just got three minutes before that cur reaches the top of the clearing and ... Off with your smock, man, or I fire," he added peremptorily, and pointing the muzzle of his pistol at the trembling shepherd. Miggs had in the meanwhile fully realised that the masked stranger was in deadly earnest. Why he should want the old smock was more than any shepherd could conceive, but that he meant to have it was very clear. Jock uttered a final plaintive word of protest.