sturdy grip of his
rifle and plants his feet firmly as he sees the Lancers sweeping down on
his comrades and himself. But of all these types of bravery there is
none that can compare with that of our homely constable when he finds on
the dark November nights that a door on his beat is ajar, and, listening
below, learns that the time has come to show the manhood that is in him.
He must fight odds in the dark. He must, single-handed, cage up
desperate men like rats in a hole. He must oppose his simple weapon to
the six-shooter and the life-preserver. All these thoughts, and the
remembrance of his wife and children at home, and of how easy it would
be not to observe the open door, come upon him, and then what does he
do? Why, with the thought of duty in his heart, and his little cudgel
in his hand, he goes to what is too often his death, like a valiant
high-minded Englishman, who fears the reproach of his own conscience
more than pistol bullet, or bludgeon stroke.

Which digression may serve to emphasize the fact that these three burly
Hampshire policemen, having been placed upon our friends' track by the
ostler of the _Flying Bull_, and having themselves observed manoeuvres
which could only be characterized as suspicious, charged down with such
vehemence, that in less time than it takes to tell it, both Tom and the
major and Von Baumser were in safe custody. The Nihilist, who had an
unextinguishable hatred of the law, and who could never be brought to
understand that it might under any circumstances be on his side, pulled
himself very straight and held his knife down at his hip as though he
meant to use it, while Bulow, of Kiel, likewise assumed an aggressive
attitude. Fortunately, however, the appearance of their prisoners and a
few hurried words from the major made the inspector in charge understand
how the land lay, and he transferred his attention to Burt, on whose
wrists he placed the handcuffs. He then listened to a more detailed
account of the circumstances from the lips of the major.

"Who is this young lady?" he asked, pointing to Kate.

"This is the Miss Harston whom we came to rescue, and for whom no doubt
the blow was intended which killed this unhappy girl."

"Perhaps, sir," said the inspector to Tom, "you had better take her up
to the house."

"Thank you," said Tom, and went off through the wood with Kate upon his
arm. On their way, she told him how, being unable to find her bonnet
and cloak,