But he had very little hope of any result; and his fears were justified when, a few days later, he met the brigadier, who had, of course, been as completely fooled by the artful Ann as Tregenna himself had been. Ann, whom the general had found with her arms in the wash-tub, placid, stolid, and as amiable as ever, had made profuse apologies for her behavior to Tregenna, whom she professed herself ashamed to meet. She had had no idea, she said, that there was any one hidden in the cart until the lieutenant had got out in search of the lost whip. Then a man had started up from under the hay, put a pistol to her head, and threatened her with instant death if she did not drive on, which she was thus forced to do. After crossing the river, he had jumped out at the first bend of the road, and she had no idea what had become of him. Even the brigadier seemed to have his doubts about the entire truth of Ann’s story; but Tregenna, who knew it was a tissue of falsehoods, said nothing. He perceived already that General Hambledon’s precious plan of “getting hold of the women, my boy,” only had the result of letting the women get hold of him. Then there came a lull in the excitement of the times. Ben the Blast had disappeared from the neighborhood, without Tregenna’s having been able to identify him with the owner of the blood-stained knife. There were no more raids; there were no more discoveries, things seemed to have settled down, and it appeared impossible to suspect the peaceful-looking carters and plowmen who went stolidly about their work in the fields, looking as placid and unenterprising as their own oxen, of having had any hand in the lawless practises which the soldiers and the cutter’s men had been sent to quell. The cutter was generally cruising about, keeping a sharp lookout on the coast for suspicious-looking craft, so that Tregenna got very little time ashore. On the rare occasions when he did get as far inland as the village of Hurst, he always felt a longing to call at the Parsonage and twit Joan with her lawless behavior in helping a criminal to escape. He was returning to the shore one day, after paying a duty visit to Hurst Court, where the ladies’ sympathy with him had been quite overwhelming, though he shrewdly guessed that their silken frocks had been cheaply come by, when he saw Mistress Joan, with a small flock of sheep before her, and a long osier wand in her hand, coming across the high ground from the marsh. She instantly checked her pace, as if to give him an opportunity to pass before she and her flock came up with him. But he, of course, checked his speed too, and raised his hat with a deep bow as soon as she came near. Joan threw back the heavy folds of her hooded cloak, and curtsied politely, but with a certain stately bashfulness which showed that his anxiety to meet her had scarcely been reciprocated.