Peggy, glad of the use of her lungs once more, and now nigh bursting with laughter at being so glibly mistook for one of the most reckless fellows in all England, took off her hat, bowed low, and said: “My Lord Brookwood, ’tis, I believe, I have the honor of addressing?” “Ho! ho! ho!” Mr. Biggs, from a survey of the saddle-bow now bursts out in triumphant joyfulness. “’Od’s blood, My Lord! but here’s luck, here’s justice, here’s what comes of my bein’ here when I am!” and Mr. Biggs now holds aloft upon the point of his stick the black mask of Master Tom Kidde, which the rogue had dropped when he was hit, and which had caught and hung by its riband from that moment to this, unseen by Lady Peg. “Highwayman! highwayman! highwayman!” yells every lung in the place, while the whole dozen, including His Lordship and the Justice, threaten Lady Peggy with their cudgels, lashes and stones. “I pray ye, My Lord, Gentlemen, and good fellows!” cries she, remembering now the entire history of the animal she bestrides, as rehearsed some six hours earlier by Beau Brummell and Mr. Vane. “I am no highwayman.” A groan of derision greets this announcement. “Nay, but the rather am I the victim of Tom Kidde, than he himself! Together with a party of my friends, being at mid-night last, on the return from a visit to Mr. Brummell’s seat, Ivy Dene, we were set upon by the rogues in the midst of Epstowe Forest; I had the luck, both good and bad, to put a ball into Tom, to get my horse shot under me, and to mount the scoundrel’s steed, the which has brought me to Your Lordship’s door, and the mare, herself, to where she belongs, it seems!” “A damned fine story, ’fore George!” exclaims Biggs, laughing triumphantly, now holding up two watches, three rings, a diamond snuff-box, a seal, two magnificent pins, and a most splendid jeweled stomacher, high above his head in the tip of the sunshine. “’Sdeath!” cried Lord Brookwood, seizing one of the trinkets and examining it with his spy-glass. “What’s this? ‘Percy de Bohun, Christmas from his aff. mother,’” reads His Lordship. Then another, “‘Wyatt Lovell souvenir of Italy!’ Gad, Biggs,” looking Her Ladyship over, where she still sits atop of the steaming black, “we’ve got the cursed blackguard this time! What else in his saddle pockets? aught?” These Biggs, assisted by the head-groom, is energetically emptying of a miscellaneous collection of valuables, while Lady Peggy looks on in amazement as yet only flavored with amusement, and one more vain regret for her abandoned petticoats. “Yes, My Lord, these thousands of pounds’ worth,” replied the Justice, holding aloft his treasure trove; “and it’ll be a short shrift for the devil, I can say that.”