“And look at these huge boots!” Indeed, this was the main trouble, for I knew they would hurt her in walking: yet she made more fuss about her hair, and only gave in when I scolded her roundly. So I took the shears and clipp’d the chestnut curls, one by one, while she cried for vexation; and took occasion of her tears to smuggle the longest lock inside my doublet. * * * * * But, an hour after, she was laughing again, and had learned to cock the poor country lad’s cap rakishly over one eye: and by evening was walking with a swagger and longing (I know) to meet with folks. For, to spare her the sight of the ruin’d cottage, I had taken her round through the fields, and by every bypath that seem’d to lead westward. ’Twas safer to journey thus; and all the way she practic’d a man’s carriage and airs, and how to wink and whistle and swing a stick. And once, when she left one of her shoes in a wet ditch, she said “d—n!” as natural as life: and then— We jump’d over a hedge, plump into an outpost of rebels, as they sat munching their supper. They were six in all, and must have been sitting like mice: for all I know of it is this. I had climb’d the hedge first, and was helping Delia over, when out of the ground, as it seem’d, a voice shriek’d, “Run—run!—the King’s men are on us!” and then, my foot slipping, down I went on to the shoulders of a thick-set man, and well-nigh broke his neck as he turn’d to look up at me. At first, the whole six were for running, I believe. But seeing only a lad stretch’d on his face, and a second on the hedge, they thought better of it. Before I could scramble up, one pair of hands was screw’d about my neck, another at my heels, and in a trice there we were pinion’d. “Fetch the lantern, Zacchaeus.” ’Twas quickly lit, and thrust into my face; and very foolish I must have look’d. The fellows were all clad in green coats, much soil’d with mud and powder. And they grinn’d in my face till I long’d to kick them. “Search the malignant!” cried one. “Question him,” call’d out another; and forthwith began a long interrogatory concerning the movements of his Majesty’s troops, from which, indeed, I learn’d much concerning the late encounter: but of course could answer nought. ’Twas only natural they should interpret this silence for obstinacy. “March ’em off to Captain Stubbs!” “Halloa!” shouted a pockmarked trooper, that had his hand thrust in on my breast: “bring the lantern close here. What’s this?” ’Twas, alas! the King’s letter: and I bit my lip while they cluster’d round, turning the lantern’s yellow glare upon the superscription. “Lads, there’s promotion in this!” shouted the thick-set man I had tumbled on (who, it seem’d, was the sergeant in the troop): “hand me the letter, there! Zacchaeus Martin and Tom Pine—you two bide here on duty: t’other three fall in about the prisoners—quick march!’ The wicked have digged a pit—’” The rogue ended up with a tag from the Psalmist.