“Hark ye,” now says Her Ladyship, as she recalls with a not unnatural tremor the death-warrant she had heard was lying to hand in Mr. Biggs’s pocket. “Lord Brookwood, I am no highwayman; my story is true; I am”—the words stuck in Peggy’s throat; she coughed, the stable boys tittered; then the head-groom tilted the saddle and spilled her out of it to the ground; at a word from Biggs, a couple of the men tied her, hand and foot, with a stout rope, and a pair of farming reins about her middle. “Now who do you call yourself, my fine fellow?” says His Lordship. “Sir Robin McTart of Robinswold, Kent!” cries Peggy, glad to be able to answer without the lie direct. “And I demand instant freedom and immunity,” cries she, tortured and quivering beneath the rude hands and ruder gibes of the grooms and ’ostlers. “Demand away! my pretty buck-skin, with your jeweled hilt!” returns Biggs, stripping the weapon from her thigh. “Your satin breeches and gold-laced waistcoat! ’Tain’t no use denyin’ you your speech, and your will to palaver on whatever matter you will, for before the clock strikes eight, you’ll be home with your father in hell.” “Tut, tut, Mr. Biggs,” says His Lordship. “Call Mr. Frewen, the Curate, he’s at his studies in the library, we havin’ sat late over our cards last night; and let him have his prayer-book to hand, open at the page for malefactors after condemnation.” “Go, you, Michael,” this to one of the now awestruck lads hanging, staring at Peg over the paddock paling. “Ask Mr. Frewen to come quickly.” “But this is monstrous, Sir!” cries Her Ladyship, now thoroughly alarmed, and near to losing her wits betwixt her endeavors to keep up her man’s estate, her contempt of her own frowardness, her shame at being thus at the mercy of her rival’s parent, and her actual terror of her position. “I do beseech you, I am an honest person, my tale is true. Is it not but the justice due to any subject of His Majesty’s, however humble, that he should not be condemned before he is tried, or even his identity proven?” “I’ll be sworn, My Lord,” exclaims Biggs, “’tis a voice and air to wheedle fine ladies out of their stomachers and chains, but not to tempt the law. Sirrah!” he continues, addressing himself to Her Ladyship, who is by this firmly tied to a post like a colt about to be broken to harness. “’Tain’t no use for you to be imaginin’ as justice and His Majesty ain’t a-doing their best for you. Here have you been a terror to all God-fearing, law-abiding Englishmen any time these half-dozen of years. A-poundin’ every heath in England, Hornslow, Bagshott, and all the commons, Wimbledon, Wandsworth, Finchley; a-hulking in Epstowe with your mates, and making the lives of travelers a burden most horrible; ain’t you secreted uncountable pounds’ worth of plunder in your devilish caves and dens? Haven’t you left the earth strewed with corpses in your ugly path? Answer me, Sir!” and Mr. Biggs stamps his foot on the ground.