“It's my native village, miss, Monks'aven is. But I didn't think 'twas too 'healthy for me down here, back along”—grinning—“so I shifted to Fallowdene, where me grandmother lives. I came back here to marry Bessie Windrake' she've stuck to me like a straight 'un. But I didn't mean to get collared poachin' again. Me and Bess was goin' to live respectable. 'Twas her bein' ill and me out of work w'at did it.”
“Let him go,” said Sara, appealing to Trent. But he shook his head.
“I can't do that,” he answered with decision.
“Not 'im, miss, 'e won't,” broke in Brady. “'E's not the soft-'earted kind, isn't Mr. Trent.”
Trent's brows drew together ominously.
“You won't mend matters by impudence, Brady,” he said sharply. “Get along now”—releasing his hold of the man's arm—“but you'll hear of this again.”
Brady shot away into the darkness like an arrow, probably chortling to himself that his captor had omitted to relieve him of the brace of rabbits he had poached; and Sara, turning again to Trent, renewed her plea for clemency.
But Trent remained adamant.
“Why shouldn't he stand his punishment like any other man?” he said.
“Well, if it's true that his wife is ill, and that he has been out of work—”