Costard.—­True, true, and now you will be my purgation, and
    let me loose.

    Armado.—­I give thee thy liberty, set thee free from
    durance; and in lieu thereof impose on thee nothing but this.

    LOVE’S LABOR LOST.

By the time the court had concluded its session it was eight o’clock in the evening.  It was quite dark, and the snow was falling heavily.  When, therefore, the constable stepped into the street, holding his prisoner by the arm, it is not surprising that he encountered but few passengers.  Those whom he did meet had their hats or caps slouched over their brows, which were bending down upon their breasts to protect the face from the driving snow.  It was impossible, so thick were the flakes, to see more than a few feet before one.  It was a fortunate circumstance, inasmuch, at least, as it saved the Recluse from the humiliation of being seen by his townsmen.

The workhouse was situated at the distance of nearly a mile from the centre of the village, on a little farm of some twenty acres, and stood several rods apart from any inhabited house.  It was the half of a large unpainted wooden building divided into two sections, the other half of which was used as an alms-house, and might be considered as a sort of auxiliary or ally of the county jail, to receive those minor offenders whom the dignity of the latter rejected.

The road Basset had to travel passed over the lower bridge of the Yaupaae, next went up a hill, and then suddenly turning, skirted the lake-like expanse of water, on which the building was situated.  In order, however, to reach the house, it was necessary to leave the main road and pass down a lane of some twenty rods in length.

Together the pair proceeded through the driving snow, Basset keeping hold of Holden, who walked meekly by his side.  The fatalism of the latter seemed to have taken entire possession of his mind, and he probably regarded his sufferings as a necessary part of the designs of Providence, which it would be as wicked as vain to resist.  The constable had repeatedly endeavored to engage his companion in conversation, striving to comfort him with the opinion, that the keeper of the quasi jail was a “clever man,” and that people did not find it as bad as they expected, and a week would quickly pass away.  “In winter,” said Basset, “when it’s hard to get work, I’ve known many a likely young fellow do some trick on purpose to be put into the workhouse till spring; so it can’t be the worst place in the world.”  Basset stretched the truth a little.  He might have known or heard of persons, who, in order to obtain warmth, and food, and shelter during that inclement season, had committed petty crimes, but such instances were exceedingly rare, and the offenders were anything but “likely fellows.”  But Basset must be excused his leasing, for he felt lonely, and longed to hear the sound of a human voice, and failing that of another, was fain to put up with his own as better than none.  But Holden steadily resisted all the advances of the constable, refusing to reply to any question, or to take notice of anything he might say, until the latter, either wearied out by the pertinacity of his captive, or vexed by what he considered sullenness or arrogance, himself relapsed into silence.