"You are in my power, and who would know it were I to leave your corpse to stiffen on the snow? But I bear you no ill will, and have no intention to hurt you. I would not harm a hair of your head. I will not subject you even to the inconvenience of having these fetters on your wrists, though you were unfeeling enough to place them on a man, the latchet of whose shoes you are unworthy to unloose. Be thankful for the forebearance, and show that you know how to appreciate it. Mark what I say. Remain where you are, nor venture to remove the covering for half an hour. It will keep you warm. Return then to your home, nor seek to discover either Holden or who rescued him, and be assured he was not privy to the intention to release him. Remember, remember. Eyes will be upon you. Good night!" So saying, the unknown departed and left the stupefied constable like a statue, rooted to the spot. There he remained, not daring to stir or to remove the uncomfortable head-dress--for by what unseen dangers he was surrounded he knew not--until, as he supposed, the half hour was more than passed. Then Basset cautiously and slowly raised his hand to his head, as if to intimate that if any one were watching and wanted him to desist, he was ready to do so, and hearing no sound, proceeded to divest himself of the hood. He looked around but could see nothing; the falling snow effectually shut out all objects from sight. He tried to move, but stiff with cold his limbs refused their office, and he nearly fell down. He took a step forward and his feet struck against the handcuffs. He stooped down and picked them up, comforting himself with the reflection, that bad as was his case, it might have been worse had they been transferred to his wrists. He strove to peer into the fallen snow, to discover, if possible, any tracks, but except his own just made none were distinguishable. The snow had already obliterated them. Faint and weary, and frozen, and vexed and frightened, the melancholy Basset turned his face to the village, not among his cronies with bold brow and loud voice to boast of his achievements, and by the aid of John Barleycorn to screw his courage up to a fabulous pitch, but with drooping crest and dejected spirits to slink to his bachelor's bed, and dream of banditti all the night. A sadder, if not a wiser man "He rose the morrow morn."