But Beau Brocade had crept underneath a heavy clump of gorse and bramble, and with his finger on the trigger of his weapon he cowered there, ready for action, his eyes fixed upon the blackness before him. The next moment the outline of the hound’s head and shoulders became faintly discernible in the gloom. With nose close to the ground, powerful jaws dropping and parched tongue hanging out of its mouth, it was heading straight for the clump of gorse where cowered the hunted man. Beau Brocade took rapid aim and fired. The dog, without a howl, rolled over on its side, whilst Jock Miggs uttered a cry of terror. Then there was an instant’s pause. The pursuers, silenced and awed, had stopped dead, for they had been taken wholly unawares, and for a second or two waited, expecting and dreading yet another shot. Then a mild, trembling voice came to them from the darkness. "There ’e is, Sergeant! Just afore you—standing ... see!..." The Sergeant and soldiers had no need to be told twice. Their pause had only been momentary and already they had perceived the outline of Jock Miggs’s figure, standing motionless not far from the body of the dead dog. With a shout of triumph Sergeant and soldiers fell on the astonished shepherd, whilst the same mild, trembling voice continued to pipe excitedly,— "Hold ’un tight, Sergeant! Jump on ’im! Tie ’is legs! Sure, an’ ’tis he, the rascal!" Jock Miggs had had no chance of uttering one word of protest, for one of the soldiers, remembering a lesson learnt the day before at the smithy, had thrown his own heavy coat right over the poor fellow’s head, effectually smothering his screams. Another man had picked up the still smoking pistol from the ground close to Miggs’s feet. "Pistols!" said the Sergeant, excitedly. "The pair o’ them too," he added, pulling the other silver-mounted weapon out of Miggs’s belt, and the black mask out of the pocket of his coat: "and silver-mounted, be gy! ... And his mask! ... Now, my men, off with him.... Tie his legs together—off with your belts, quick! ... and you, Corporal, keep that coat tied well over his head ... the rascal’s like an eel, and’ll wriggle out of your hands if you don’t hold him tight.... Remember there’s a hundred guineas reward for the capture of Beau Brocade." Poor old Miggs, smothered within the thick folds of the soldier’s coat, could scarce manage to breathe. The men were fastening his knees and ankles together with their leather belts, his arms too were pinioned behind his back. Thus trussed and spitted like a goose ready for roasting, he felt himself being hauled up on the shoulders of some of the men and then borne triumphantly away. "We’ve gotten Beau Brocade!" "Hip! hip! hurray!" And so they marched away, shouting lustily, whilst Beau Brocade remained alone on the Heath.