"You’d like to wet your gullet after this, eh, Jock?" he said, as he ordered a tankard of steaming ale to be brought forthwith to the dripping man. The soldiers, somewhat shamefaced, had pressed into the bar-parlour of the inn: presently there would be a few broken heads in the village as a result of the morning’s work, but for the moment the yokels had not begun to chaff: ’twas Jock who was the centre of attraction outside in the porch, sitting on a bench and sipping large quantities of hot ale. "Let’s all drink a glass of ale to the health of Jock Miggs, the highwayman!" came in merry accents from one of the gaffers. "Hurrah for Jock Miggs, the highwayman!" was the universal gleeful chorus. "Be gy! Don’t he look formidable!" quoth one of the villagers, pointing at the shepherd’s scared figure on the bench. "Let me perish!" said another in mock alarm, "but I’se mightily afeeard o’ him." Mistress Betty too had mixed with the throng, and was eyeing Jock, with irrepressible laughter dancing in her saucy little face. "Lud! ’tis that funny bit of sheep’s wool!" she said gaily. "Faith! and you do look sadly, Jock Miggs, and no mistake! Have you been in the pond?" "How did ’e foind that out?" queried Miggs, vaguely. "Aye! they dumped Oi in t’ pond, they did ... and nearly throttled Oi ... ’tis a blamed shame!" He had sipped huge tankards of hot ale until he felt thoroughly warm, and was steaming now like a great loaf just out of the oven. "Dumped ye in the pond?" laughed Mistress Betty. "You were no beauty before, Jock Miggs ... but now ... Oh! Gemini! ... Why, what had you done?" "I’d done nowt!" retorted the bewildered shepherd. "A foine gentleman he took a fancy to me old smock, he did ... he put a pistol to my head ... then he give me his own beautiful coat for to make me look decent ... and I were just puttin’ it on when them soldiers fell on me ... and nigh throttled me, and clapped me in the pound they did..." "Ye seem to have had a rough time o’ it, friend Miggs," said John Stich, kindly. "Aye, that be so!" commented Jock, vaguely. "’Mazing times these be!" "They mistook you in your fine clothes for Beau Brocade," explained one of the villagers. "May be so!" quoth Miggs. "I dunno." But Mistress Betty held up a rosy finger at the unfortunate shepherd, and said with grave severity,— "Ye are not Beau Brocade, Jock Miggs, are ye?" "I dunno!" replied Jock Miggs with imperturbable vagueness. "I don’t rightly know who Oi be! I think them soldiers made a mistake, but I dunno." He was undoubtedly the hero of the hour, and the rest of his morning was spent in pleasant conviviality with all his friends in the village, until by about noon the worthy shepherd was really hopelessly at sea as to who he really was. At one o’clock he became quite convinced that he was Beau Brocade the highwayman—or at any rate a very dangerous character—and had only escaped hanging through his reputation of supernatural cunning and bravery.