He uttered exhilarating reflections until the severity of the hill reduced him to silence. Then Ernest Maunder, who had not yet recovered from his amazement at finding Fogo a traitor, asked him a question. "If you’re going straight away off to Plymouth, what about your luggage?" "You’ll see it in the trap," answered ’Frosty.’ "I’ve got a box and a bundle and no more. Mind, Constable Maunder, that you step boldly into the ring; and don’t do it too soon. Wait till the men have stripped and shook hands. Then out you go, and not a man dare withstand you. Have no fear for yourself. At their everlasting peril would they do it, for you are the State. ’Twill be the greatest moment in your life, and I hope you’ll bear yourself with dignity." "I hope I shall," replied Mr. Maunder; "but ’twould be easier if ’twas milder weather." Dawn rolled along Dartmoor edge as they reached the silent hill-top, and it revealed an unfamiliar object upon the featureless bosom of Ringmoor. As Fogo had foretold, distant one hundred yards from a little wood beside the highway, the twenty-four-foot Ring stood stark in the twilight of morning. Heavy stakes, painted blue, supported the ropes. An outer ring--to keep spectators clear from the fight--was also set up beyond, and the ground could not have been better chosen. Close at hand an open trap was waiting, and the driver stamped up and down to keep himself warm. Mr. Maunder, with a flash of professional zeal, satisfied himself that ’Frosty’s’ luggage was really in this vehicle and marked a wooden box, studded with brass nails, and a parcel containing a large umbrella and some walking-sticks. "I got my kit out last night, after Shillabeer had gone to his rest," explained Mr. Fogo. "This morning he’ll think that I’ve risen betimes and come up here--and he’ll think right, for that matter." In half an hour the party had cut down some boughs of fir, made a screen against the north wind, and hidden themselves carefully at the edge of the wood. Then Mr. Fogo joined the vicar in a light breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and cold tea; and finally he prepared to take his leave. He declared that he left for Plymouth with reluctance and would much have liked to see the triumph of right; but, in plain English, he feared greatly for his own skin if the disappointed sportsmen discovered him with the police. Therefore he bade all farewell, invited and obtained Mr. Merle’s formal blessing upon his future, and then drove away along the road to Plymouth. Yet, for some private and obscure reason, when a mile had been traversed, Mr. Fogo appeared suddenly to change his mind. He directed the driver to sink down to Meavy valley; and thence the trap returned as swiftly as possible to Sheepstor.