At length he heard his own name buzzed about; one said that Twm Shon Catty whose humorous tricks were the themes of every tongue, was discovered to be a great thief: and that he who had fought against highwaymen, had at last become one himself, and committed all the robberies which had taken place in that country for years past. One said that he could never be taken; and a third contradicted that assertion, declaring that he was then fettered in the hall, and waiting to be conveyed to Carmarthen gaol. One assigned him to the gallows as his due, while another tenderly replied that hanging was too good for him. Opposing the sentiments and opinions of all these, more than one declared that the hemp was neither spun nor grown that would hang Twm; and pity it should, as he was a friend of the poor, and an enemy to none but the stupid, the cruel, and the oppressive.
The disputed argument was disposed of summarily by the appearance of an important functionary, resplendent in the gorgeous dress which he wore in virtue of his exalted office. This individual, who was the town crier, obtaining silence, informed the assembled multitude that the magistrates who were now sitting, required that any “person or persons” who might have been defrauded in the fair, should now come forward, so as to form a clue towards the identity of the robber, which it was generally believed was no other than the notorious Twm Shon Catty. The crier retired, and in a few minutes re-appeared, and read the court’s proclamation, offering a reward of twenty pounds to any person who would apprehend the said Twm Shon Catty; which was answered with loud hisses by the majority of the crowd, and effectually drowned the applause of the rest.
This was a most flattering ovation for Twm, and his spirits rose accordingly; while, at the same time, he felt himself aggrieved by this public proclamation concerning him by the authorities, who, he considered, had, in this instance, somewhat exceeded their vocation. He resolved to “beard the lion in his den,” or in other words, to enter the hall and give the lie to any base-minded cur who should dare to associate his name with common robbers and felons.
Softly, Twm, softly, my boy! On second thoughts he came to the conclusion that that would not be quite prudent—he would make his way into the Hall of Justice, and preserving his disguise, see how matters were progressing, and try if he could not secure a little personal entertainment for himself.
Daring Twm! thy genius adapted itself to circumstances; many people would be doubtless astonished that our hero should venture on such cause, but when enthusiasm, and the pride of achievement, even in a worthless cause, actuates the passion-fraught breast, supplanting the place of reasoning calculation, the wonder vanishes. The desperate outlaw, whose temerity is applauded, feels the gust of heroism in as warm a degree as the generous patriot whose claim to renown is better founded and graced with national approbation. Twm soon found himself in the hall; for it was his own native energies stood him in better stead than the fabled cap of Fortunatus: he wished, and obtained; hated, and was revenged; desired to tread a difficulty under foot, and gained his purpose; while the generality of men would be analyzing every shadow of obstruction that impeded their aim.
He took his stand in a conspicuous place near the bench, the “awful judgment-seat,” which was at this time filled by three magistrates including his laughter-loving friend Prothero, whose ruddy happy round face deprived law itself of half its terrors. Before him, he found his old friend Evans of Tregaron, who had been sputtering a confused account of our hero’s gracelessness from his childhood, to the last trick he had played him, by stealing his grey horse at Machynlleth. How he had cheated the heir of Graspacre-Hall of the horse at Welshpool; and how the same horse was traced into the possession of a simple fellow in straw boots and cow-hide breeches, who that very day had sold it to his friend Mr. Powell; which sale, he contended, could not stand good, as the stolen horse was his property to all intents and purposes, which he could prove by credible witnesses.
This recapitulation of Twm’s tricks tickled the gravity of Prothero amazingly; and at every pause which Evans made in his narration, he was answered by the loud “ho, ho, ho!” of that merry magistrate.
Mr. Powell then told his story, and, in conclusion, said he was in the commission of the peace in the town of Brecon. “Ho, ho, ho!” roared Prothero, “here we are, three magistrates, ho, ho, ho! three magistrates, and all fooled by Twm Shon Catty.—Clever fellow, ho, ho, ho! wild dog, ho, ho, ho!—means no great harm—never keeps what he steals—gives all to the poor fellows that want—ho, ho, ho! Never mind, gentlemen, the fun of the thing repays the loss, which can be shared between you. Let Mr. Evans take the horse, on paying Mr. Powell what he gave young cow-breeches, ho, ho, ho! better than lose all.”
Mr. Powell immediately acceded to the arrangement, but the unaccommodating Evans insisted on having the horse without the payment, and made some tart remarks on conniving at a rascal’s tricks and villanies. “For my part, I’d shoot him dead like a dog!” cried the reverend preacher of peace and concord; drawing at the same time, a pair of pistols from his pocket, and replacing them, in a fiery fit of passion. “Ho, ho, ho!” roared Prothero, “but you’d catch him first, brother, ho, ho, ho!—too cunning for you, for me, and all of us—might be here this moment, laughing in his sleeve at us, for what we know, ho, ho, ho!”
Twm thought it was now time to be taking a more active part in the scene, so taking out a small book, while appearing to be deeply absorbed in its perusal, he gave a deep groan as if much moved by what he read, and the mourning sound at once attracted notice.