not have been
afraid of me. But I think that he was a little unsettled by fear.

He did not explain, however, only bidding me shudderingly, "not to come
at him that way again!" So I promised I would not, all the more readily
that I heard him muttering to himself, "I thought he had me that
time--yes, sure!"

Then I knew that he too was afraid of the man who called himself
Wringham Pollixfen Poole and had killed the real Mr. Richard in our old
cheese-room. But I was not a bit afraid, for had I not jumped through
the orchard window, and run and clapped my hand on his shoulder without
a thought of the creature ever crossing my mind.

At any rate I took him in with me--that is, Boyd Connoway. I cannot say
that he wanted very much to go "before them Justices," as he said. But
at least he preferred it to stopping outside. I think he was frightened
of my coming out again and slapping down my hand on his shoulder. Lord
knows he need not have been, for I promised not to. At any rate he came,
which was the main thing.

He did not enjoy the ceremony, but stood before them with his blue coat
with the large rolling collar, which had been made for a bigger man,
buttoned about his waist, and his rig-and-furrow stockings of green,
with home-made shoes called "brogues," the secret of making which he had
brought with him from a place called Killybegs in County Donegal. He was
all tashed with bits of straw and moss clinging to him. His knees too
were wet where he had knelt in the marsh, and there was a kind of white
shaking terror about the man that impressed every one. For Boyd Connoway
had ever been the gayest and most reckless fellow in the parish.

When he was asked if he knew anything about the matter he only
stammered, "Thank you kindly, Doctor, and you, General, and hoping that
I have the honour of seein' you in good health, and that all is well
with you at home and your good ladies and the childer!"

The General, who thought that he spoke in a mood of mockery, cautioned
him that they were met there on a business of life and death, and were
in no mood to be trifled with. Therefore, he, Boyd Connoway, had better
keep his foolery for another time!

But the Doctor, being by his profession accustomed to diagnose the moods
of souls, discerned the laboured pant of one who has been breathed by a
long run from mortal terror--who has, as my father would have said,
"ridden a race with Black Care clinging to the crupper"--and took Boyd