"Kind sir ... but if Oi take off my smock ... I sha’nt be quite d ... d ... decent ... sir ... wi’ only my shirt." "You shall have my coat," replied Bathurst, decisively. "Lud preserve me! ... Your coat, sir!" "Yes! it’s old and shabby, and my waistcoat too.... Now off with that smock, or..." Once more the muzzle of the pistol gleamed close to Jock Miggs’s head. Without further protest he began to divest himself of his smock. The process was slow and laborious, and Jack set his teeth not to scream with the agony of the suspense. He himself had had little difficulty in taking off his own coat and waistcoat, for earlier in the day, before he had been so hard pressed, the pain in his shoulder had caused him to slip his left arm out of its sleeve. Moreover, the excitement of these last fateful moments kept him at fever pitch: he was absolutely unconscious of aught save of the rapid flight of the seconds and the steady approach of dog and men towards the clearing. Even Jock Miggs, who up to now had been too intent on his own adventure to take much heed of what went on in the gloom beyond, even he perceived that something unusual was happening on the Moor. "What’s that?" he asked with renewed terror. "A posse of soldiers at my heels," said Beau Brocade, decisively, "that’s why I want your smock, my man, and if I don’t get it there’ll be just time to blow out your dull brains before I fall into their hands." This last argument was sufficiently convincing. Miggs thought it decidedly best to obey; he helped his mysterious assailant on with his own smock, cap and kerchief, and not unwillingly attired himself in Beau Brocade’s discarded coat and waistcoat. "A pistol in your belt in case you need it, friend," whispered Bathurst, rapidly, as he slipped one of the weapons in Miggs’s belt, keeping the other firmly grasped in his own hand. There was no doubt that the hound was on the scent now: the men had ceased shouting but their rapid footsteps could be heard following closely upon the dog, whose master was muttering a few words of encouragement. Anon there came a whisper, louder than the rest,— "This way!..." Then another,— "There’s a path here!" "Be gy! this confounded darkness!" "Steady, Roy! steady, old man! Eh? What?" "This way!" "Can’t you find the trail, old Roy?" And the gorse was crackling beneath rapid and stealthy footsteps. There was now just the width of the clearing between Beau Brocade and his pursuers. "This way, Sergeant. Roy’s got the trail again." Neither Jock Miggs nor yet Beau Brocade could see what was going on at the further end of the clearing. The dog, wildly straining against the leash, was quivering with intense excitement, his master hanging on to him with all his might. Miggs, scared like some sheep lost among a herd of cows, was standing half-dazed, smoothing down with appreciative fingers the fine cloth of his new apparel, terrified every time his hand came in contact with the pistol in his belt.