“You are in my power, and who would know it were I to leave your corpse to stiffen on the snow?  But I bear you no ill will, and have no intention to hurt you.  I would not harm a hair of your head.  I will not subject you even to the inconvenience of having these fetters on your wrists, though you were unfeeling enough to place them on a man, the latchet of whose shoes you are unworthy to unloose.  Be thankful for the forebearance, and show that you know how to appreciate it.  Mark what I say.  Remain where you are, nor venture to remove the covering for half an hour.  It will keep you warm.  Return then to your home, nor seek to discover either Holden or who rescued him, and be assured he was not privy to the intention to release him.  Remember, remember.  Eyes will be upon you.  Good night!” So saying, the unknown departed and left the stupefied constable like a statue, rooted to the spot.

There he remained, not daring to stir or to remove the uncomfortable head-dress—­for by what unseen dangers he was surrounded he knew not—­until, as he supposed, the half hour was more than passed.  Then Basset cautiously and slowly raised his hand to his head, as if to intimate that if any one were watching and wanted him to desist, he was ready to do so, and hearing no sound, proceeded to divest himself of the hood.  He looked around but could see nothing; the falling snow effectually shut out all objects from sight.  He tried to move, but stiff with cold his limbs refused their office, and he nearly fell down.  He took a step forward and his feet struck against the handcuffs.  He stooped down and picked them up, comforting himself with the reflection, that bad as was his case, it might have been worse had they been transferred to his wrists.  He strove to peer into the fallen snow, to discover, if possible, any tracks, but except his own just made none were distinguishable.  The snow had already obliterated them.  Faint and weary, and frozen, and vexed and frightened, the melancholy Basset turned his face to the village, not among his cronies with bold brow and loud voice to boast of his achievements, and by the aid of John Barleycorn to screw his courage up to a fabulous pitch, but with drooping crest and dejected spirits to slink to his bachelor’s bed, and dream of banditti all the night.

A sadder, if not a wiser man

  “He rose the morrow morn.”

Not a word spoke he the next day of his misadventure, until it having been ascertained that Holden had not been at the workhouse, inquiry was made respecting his non-appearance.  The constable was then obliged to confess the truth, which his captors, as if defying discovery, had not enjoined him to conceal.  Faithful to his instructions, he exculpated Holden from all blame, praising him for his submissiveness to the law, expressing his conviction that the old man knew nothing of the intentions of his captors, nor whether they were friends or foes.  Notwithstanding the reluctance of the constable, the indignant Justice, in the first ebullition of his anger, made out another mittimus, which he almost forced into the other’s unwilling hands, and commanded him to arrest the fugitive, wherever he might find him, by night or by day, on the Lord’s Day or on any other day, were the place the Sanctuary itself.