“She accuses you of murder,” was the brief rejoinder.
“She’s mad. I never saw her before.”
“What’s to be done wi’ this man?” inquired the farmer of the constable.
“He’s my prisoner, anyway,” answered the latter. “Best see and have his wounds attended to, and then we will take him to the lock-up. You charge him, I suppose?”
“Yes, with burglary.”
“Attempted burglary,” chimed in the cracksman.
“And I charge him with wilful murder!” exclaimed Jane Ryan.
Having said this, she folded her arms upon her breast and relapsed into gloomy silence. There she stood, colossal as an Amazon, in her sublime strength, beautiful as a Judith in her just and fearful vengeance.
A hurdle was brought by some of the villagers, and upon this the ill-fated Badger was placed; he was then carried into the farmhouse, not, however, before the constable had taken the precaution to handcuff him, for he was known to that astute officer as a ruffian of no common order. He was, however, run to earth, having been, in a manner of speaking, hunted down by a woman.
A doctor was sent for, who bandaged his wound, which, although severe, was not likely to prove mortal—certainly not unless some unfavourable symptons set in.