A tall young man jumped over a neighbouring stile, and with one blow from the stout ash stick he carried struck the weapon out of Peace’s hand; then he delivered another terrific blow on our hero’s head, which sent him back reeling and half stunned. “You cowardly scoundrel,” exclaimed the new comer, “to lay your hands on a woman.” The speaker was about to inflict further chastisement, whereupon Nelly interceded. “Spare him, Mr. Jamblin,” said the girl. “He be mad, and knows not what he has been doing. He be mad, I’m sure o’ that.” “What have you to say for yourself, sir? What is the reason for this outrage?” inquired the young man, addressing himself to Peace. “What business is it of yours?” answered our hero. “There is a reason, and a very strong one. But, hark ye! Don’t you bully me, or it will be worse for you. I’m not afraid of you, big as you are.” “I’ve seen your face before,” observed the newcomer. “It’s familiar to me.” “Have you?” cried Peace, making a hideous grimace. “Then you’ve the advantage of me, for I never saw your ugly mug before; and what’s more, I don’t want to see it again.” “Do you remember a burglary at Oakfield House, some time ago, eh?” “No, I don’t. Do you?” inquired Peace, who was by this time a litle less confident in his tone and manner. “Yes, I do. A man named Gregson was shot by a woman, and afterwards expiated his crimes on the public scaffold. If I mistake not, I met you on the night of the burglary. I’ve an astonishing power of remembering faces.” “Have you? You’re a mighty clever fellow in your way; but it so happens that I never heard of any such burglary, and don’t know any house bearing that name. You seem to know more about it than I do. Were you one of the burglars?” At this last observation the young man rushed forward and was about to strike Peace, when the girl, Nelly, threw herself between the two, and begged her protector to spare him. “Say no more, Nell,” returned the young man. “I won’t harm him. Though for the life of me I can’t understand why you should seek to protect him.” “Go your ways, you ugly little vagabond,” said the stranger, addressing Peace. “If you remain here much longer the chances are you will find yourself handed over to the police constable, who is coming this way.” Peace in this instance considered discretion to be the better part of valour, and, hurling several anathemas at the girl and her protector, he made off. He hastened at once to the house of the village surgeon, where he had his head dressed, declaring that he had received the wound in conflict with what he chose to term a ruffian.