"Du'ye let I have my little dog, sir. Don't ye tak' she away 'cause I can't pay for the paper," whined Brightly, continuing his strange dance of agony. "I ain't got nothing now, sir. My vases be took, and my basket and rabbit-skins, and her be all I have. I'd ha' paid the fine for she, sir, but trade be cruel dull, and the pennies wun't keep. Don't ye tak' she away, sir. I couldn't go abroad on Dartmoor wi'out she. I'd think and wonder what had come to she, and 'twould hurt I cruel." "You ain't going to tramp about on Dartmoor. You'm going to prison," shouted the witty policeman, while the villagers applauded him again, and Ju struggled, and Brightly went on weeping. Not every one would have enjoyed the spectacle, although the constable and the crowd appreciated it. The rugged little mountains stood about silently, and became tired perhaps of looking on, for they began to mask their heads in mist. Even the sun didn't like it, and rolled himself up in a dark cloud, and came out no more that day. It was autumn, there was a smell of decay in the air, and a sense of sorrow somehow. The dark days were near; the time when warm earth, bright flowers, joy of life, are so unreal, so far away, that it seems sometimes they may not return again. In due course Brightly appeared before the magistrates, as sober a set of justices as ever lived, as learned in law as a row of owls, but carefully driven by a clerk, who kept their heads up, and their feet from stumbling into the ditch. The case was fully stated, and witnesses were called, among them Chegwidden, who had missed several Thursday evenings out, and was then only just well enough to attend the court. He explained that he had been riding home from Brentor on a dark windy night, and had been suddenly attacked, dragged off his horse, and stunned by a blow on the head. He remembered nothing more until he found himself in bed at home. He identified the clothes as his property. In answer to a question he admitted he had seen no one, but the attack had been made suddenly, and the night was very dark. Had he been drinking? Well, he might have taken a glass at Brentor, but not enough to upset him. He was a sober man. Nobody had ever seen him the worse for liquor, although he confessed he was not a teetotaler.