"Good," said the officer; "you shall hang for this, Mr. William Jefferay, as surely as there is a sun in the heavens." The day was wearing on, the sun rose high in the sky, and the bound men began to feel the pangs of thirst—yet no man passed that way to bring them release. They had many times shouted loudly for help—but there was none to make reply. Evening had come, and the wretched men began to fear that a night in the woods would be their fate—perhaps death itself from hunger and thirst! But Providence willed it otherwise. To their joy a woodman, returning from his daily toil, came slowly down the track. He started in amazement as he heard the cries of the prisoners, and came to the spot where they were bound. "What now, my masters!" cried the woodman. "What means all this?" "Don't waste time in talk, man," answered the luckless Pursuivant; "bring hither thy axe and cut these accursed ropes." The man hesitated, and his weather-beaten features assumed a shrewd expression. "You must first tell me who you be, and how you came to this pass; I may get myself into trouble." "Fool!" cried the Pursuivant, now getting angry, "I am a Queen's officer, and these are my men—thy axe, I say, thy axe, and that quick!" But the man was evidently the master of the situation, and he was not to be hurried. Moreover, his sense of cupidity began to be awakened—there was, doubtless, something to be earned in this matter. "Well, I doant know but what I med do you this little job," he said cautiously; "but what is it worth?" The Pursuivant ground his teeth with rage. "It will be worse for thee, fool, if thou hesitate any longer; come, bring thy axe and cut these ropes, I command you." "Oh, that is it, is it?" said the man; "then I leaves you to yourself and bid you good e'en!" And forthwith he began to walk away. At this the bound men set up a loud howl of entreaty—their worst fears seemed about to be realized. The woodman relented, and returned once more to the prisoners. This time he came straight to the point. "What will you give me if I cut your cords?" said he, and his eyes sparkled greedily. The Pursuivant hesitated ere he replied; his first thought was tinged with bitter rage: he would make this fellow smart for his greedy impudence. But reflection brought another thought: it did not matter what he gave this man; they were three to one—when once they were freed they could make him disgorge his ill-gotten gains! So he replied, "Come hither, man; put thy hand in my doublet pocket and take my purse, with all that it contains." The woodman obeyed, and soon found the purse; it was well lined, and his greed was satisfied. But he was no simpleton, and the same thought which had inspired the Pursuivant's generosity had occurred to him also; he determined, therefore, on his line of action. Approaching the tree to which one of the men-at-arms was bound, he raised his axe, and, with one blow, severed the rope.