He waits a moment, as if deliberating with himself whether to speak fairly or not, then, being still sore with his ill-treatment, and angered to be questioned thus by a mere girl (he, as I take it, being a man of thirty or thereabouts), he answers: 

“I do not choose to tell.  Who I am, what I am, concerns you no more than who and what you are concerns me, and less since I may justly demand by what right these fellows, whom I take to be your servants, have thus laid hands on me.”

“How do you answer this?” asks Moll, turning to Simon.

Then Simon told very precisely, as if he were before a magistrate, how this man, having been seen lingering about the Court several days, and being without home or occupation, had been suspected of felonious purposes; how, therefore, he had set a watch to lay wait for him; how that morning they had entrapped him standing within a covert of the park regarding the house; how he had refused to give his name or any excuse for his being there, and how he had made most desperate attempt to escape when they had lain hands on him.

“Is this true?” asks Moll of the prisoner.

“Yes,” says he.

Moll regards him with incredulous eyes a moment, then, turning to Simon, “What arms had he for this purpose that you speak of?” says she.

“None, mistress; but ’twould be a dread villain verily who would carry the engines of his trade abroad in daylight to betray him.”  And then he told how ’tis the habit of these poachers to reconnoitre their ground by day, and keep their nets, guns, etc., concealed in some thicket or hollow tree convenient for their purpose.  “But,” adds he, “we may clearly prove a trespass against him, which is a punishable offence, and this assault upon me, whereof I have evidence, shall also count for something with Justice Martin, and so the wicked shall yet come by their deserts.”  And with that he gives his fellows a wink with his one eye to carry off their quarry.

“Stay,” says Moll, “I would be further convinced—­”

“If he be an honest man, let him show thee his hand,” says Simon.

The man innocently enough stretches out his palm towards us, not perceiving Simon’s end.

“There!” cries Simon.  “What said I?  Is that a hand that ever did a day’s honest work?”

“’Tis no worse than mine,” says Moll, regarding the hand which in truth was exceeding smooth and well formed.  “Come,” adds she, still more kindly, “you see I am no harsh judge.  I would not deny a fellow-creature the pleasure that is not grudged the coney that runs across my lawn.  Tell me you were there but to gratify a passing caprice, and I’ll forgive you as freely as I’ll believe you.”

This gentle appeal seemed to move the young man greatly, and he made as if he would do more than was demanded of him, and make that free confession which he had refused to force.  But ere a word could leave his parted lips a deadly shade passed over his face, his knees gave under him, and staggering to save himself, he fell to the ground in a swoon.