They had crossed the bridge, passed up the hill, and traversed the road along the margin of the Yaupaae, and were now just entering the lane that runs down to the house.  The storm was raging with unabated fury, and the constable, with clenched teeth, and bent head, and half-shut eyes, was breasting the driving flakes, and congratulating himself with the idea that his exposure would soon be over, and he by the side of a warm stove in one of the stores, the hero of the evening, recounting the adventures of the day and comfortably taking his cheerful glass, when suddenly, without having seen a person, his cap was violently pulled over his eyes, a thick coffee-bag slipped over his head, and a hand applied to his throat to stifle any cries, should he be disposed to make them.  But the poor fellow was too much frightened to emit a sound, had he been never so much inclined to scream.

“Make no noise,” said a stern but disguised voice, “and you are safe.  No injury is designed.  I will lead you.  Follow quietly.”

The man grasped his arm, and led him, as it seemed, out of the travelled path into an adjoining field, for he was directed to lift his feet at a particular spot, and in doing so, struck them against what were evidently wooden bars, such as are everywhere to be found in New England, at the entrances to the stone wall encircled lots.  They were followed by Holden, and, as the constable judged, from the slight sounds he succeeded in occasionally catching, by another person.  When his captor seemed to think he was in a place where he would be unlikely to be disturbed by a casual passer, he stopped and demanded the key to the handcuffs.  Every movement of the constable must have been narrowly watched during the evening, for, as he hesitated, either confused by the unexpected capture, and forgetful of where he had placed the key, or desirous to gain time in the hope that help might arrive—­whatever might have been the motive, no time was granted, the same stern voice instantly adding,

“The key is in the right pocket of your pantaloons:  give it to me at once.”

With a trembling hand, the constable produced the key from his pocket, and was confirmed, by what followed, in the belief that his captor must have a coadjutor, for he still kept his hold, and uttered the single word “here,” as if addressing another, and handing him the key.  Presently, the handcuffs were thrown down at his feet, and he thought he could detect the sound of receding footsteps.  His captor then demanded the mittimus, which he tore into small pieces, and scattered around.  In this condition muffled so that he could hardly breathe, with a desperado, or he knew not how many at his side, who, at the least attempt to make an outcry, might do him some bodily injury or perhaps murder him, the next quarter of an hour seemed a whole dismal night to the unfortunate Basset.  At the expiration of that time, his guard addressed him again, and in the same carefully feigned voice: