“Not a bone shall be broken, mistress.  ’Tis enough if we carry him before Justice Martin, a godly, upright man, and a scourge to evil-doers.”

“Nay, you shall not do that, neither, till I have heard his case,” says Moll. “’Tis for me to decide whether he has injured me or not, and I’ll suffer none to take my place.”

Promising obedience, Simon withdrew before any further restrictions might be put upon him; but Moll’s mind was much disturbed all day by fear of mischief being done despite her commands, and at night she would have me take her round the park to see all well.  Maybe, she thought that her own father, stealing hither to see her privily, might fall a victim to Simon’s ambushed hirelings.  But we found no one, though Simon had certainly hidden these fellows somewhere in the thickets.

Whilst we were at table next morning, we heard a great commotion in the hall; and Mrs. Butterby coming in a mighty pucker, told how the robber had been taken in the park, and how Simon had brought him to the house in obedience to her lady’s command.  “But do, pray, have a care of yourself, my dear lady,” says she; “for this hardy villain hath struck Mr. Simon in the face and made most desperate resistance; and Heaven protect us from such wicked outlaws as have the villany to show themselves in broad daylight!”

Moll, smiling, said she would rather face a lion in the day than a mouse by night, and so bade the captive to be brought before her.

Then in comes Simon, with a stout band over one eye, followed by two sturdy fellows holding their prisoner betwixt them.  And this was a very passionate man, as was evidenced by the looks of fury he cast from side to side upon his captors as they dragged him this way and that to make a show of their power, but not ill-looking.  In his struggles he had lost his hat, and his threadbare coat and shirt were torn open, laying bare his neck and showing a very fair white skin and a good beard of light curling hair.  There was nought mean or vile in his face, but rather it seemed to me a noble countenance, though woefully wasted, so that at a glance one might perceive he was no born rascal, but likely enough some ruined man of better sort driven to unlawful ways by his distress.  He was of a fair height, but gaunt beyond everything, and so feeble that after one effort to free his arms his chin sank upon his breast as if his forces were all spent.

Seeing this, Moll bade the fellows unbind him, telling them sharply they might see there was no need of such rigour.

Being freed, our prisoner lifts his head and makes a slight reverence to Moll, but with little gratitude in his look, and places himself at the end of the table facing us, who are at the other end, Moll sitting betwixt Don Sanchez and me.  And there, setting his hands for support upon the board, he holds his head up pretty proudly, waiting for what might come.

“Who are you?” asks Moll, in a tone of authority.