Here the general attention was called to the entrance of the ex-proprietor of the roll of flannel, who almost deafened them by the vehemence of her complaints, which, however, were too incoherently expressed to be immediately understood. “Oh! my roll of flannel, my fine, excellent flannel! all of my own spinning too,—eight and twenty good yards, and a yard and a half wide—my wooden shoe too that I lost in the crowd—and my poor corns trod off by the villains—my dear sweet flannel, all of my own carding and spinning—nobody but the devil himself, or his first cousin Twm Shôn Catti, could have taken it in such a manner—it was whisked from me as if a whirlwind had swept it away.” At length she paused for want of breath, and Twm approached her with the air of a comforter, and read from his book, “Were a woman as quick with her feet as with her tongue, she would catch the lightning to kindle her fire in the morning.” It is probable that she did not perfectly hear this passage, as, on perceiving Twm, she gave a shout of joy, and then, as incoherently as before, appealed to the magistrate; “This honest man, your worship, knows it all. I told him, the moment I lost my flannel—this worthy man, your worship,—a good man, a wise man, a man who reads books, your worship, he can witness.” A fresh hubbub at the entrance of the hall, now diverted all the attention from the old woman’s complaint, and loud were the shouts of laughter on beholding the object that now presented itself. Supported by two constables, who rather dragged forward, than led him, came Twm’s friend the hardwareman, crowned with the identical iron pot before-named, which the officers, as a matter of official formality, or to indulge their own facetiousness, refused to remove, till in the presence of a magistrate. When his laughter had a little subsided, Prothero ordered the pot to be removed, and his hands untied. The hardwareman then told his lamentable tale in a few words; in conclusion, he declared, that having overheard certain words between the robber and his accomplice, he had learned that the thief was no other than Twm Shôn Catti. His eye now caught the figure of our hero, and with a yell as astounding as if the eternal enemy of man stood before him, he cried, “There he is! there he is! As heaven shall save me, there stands the man, or devil, who crowned me with the iron pot, while his accomplice ran off with another.” “And who robbed me of my flannel!” roared the old woman, who now changed her opinion, as her earliest suspicions became thus suddenly confirmed. “And who stole my grey horse!” bawled Evans of Tregaron. “And who sold it to me, when disguised in straw-boots and cow-hide breeches,” cried Powell of Brecon, who had now closely examined his features.