The sergeant dismounted and seized the prisoner round the waist, but he clung like a limpet to the horse’s neck. Finally, a strong pull brought him heavily down in the road. Both man and officer burst into a peal of laughter.
“Sir, sir,” said the stifled voice from the ground, “I swear to Heaven, sir, I be’ant he. Indeed, indeed, I were just pushed sore against my will into this night’s work.”
“Who is the fellow?” asked the captain, when he had finished laughing. “The boy said he was Walters.”
The sergeant took out a knife and ripped the bonnet-strings apart; mask and bonnet fell together.
“It’s Charles Turnbull, sir,” he said, grinning widely. “Turnbull the auctioneer at Waterchurch village.”
“Are you sure it’s not Walters?” said the captain, who had never seen Rhys.
“No, no, sir, indeed I be’ant,” cried the auctioneer, scrambling to his feet, and stumbling helplessly in the skirt. “Rhys Walters o’ Masterhouse was dressed the same as me, but he’s off. Riding for his neck he is. I never struck a blow, sir, that I didn’t, for I were behind the toll-house, lookin’ on, and I says to myself——”
“That’ll do,” said the captain shortly. “Now then, sergeant, up with him again; you can leave his clothes as they are, for the police will want to see all that. Pick up that thing on the ground.”
The sergeant picked up the sun-bonnet with another grin, and then hoisted Turnbull into the saddle.
“You can pull the reins over the horse’s head and lead him,” said the officer, “he is not likely to try and escape. He hasn’t got courage enough even for that. And now for the lock-up at Llangarth.”