Dawn, like a red slant gash on a dead man\'s throat, surprised Putt and Bickford where they waited for their master on the way. They had started before him, for Malherb\'s saddle-horse was at grass and had to be captured after Lee brought his news.

"I shall, however, quickly overtake you," Mr. Malherb said to his men. "Travel by Sherberton; hold over Believer Tor; then pass under Dagger Farm and cross East Dart at the pack-horse bridge."

These things the labourers had done and now hesitated to proceed to Chagford without Maurice Malherb. They dismounted, therefore, by the old \'cyclopean\' span that still crosses Dart at Postbridge, sheltered themselves and their steeds against the sting of the air and listened where Dart sang to the savage dawn. Young green things of the year shivered in the morning chill; nature still slept; the men got under a flaming brake of spring furze that made light in the grey; then, waiting there, they heard the clink of iron-shod feet on granite and knew that somebody was crossing the bridge. A heron floated upon broad wings down stream; and in the marshes at hand a cock curlew woke and uttered strange, bubbling cries of warning to his mate.

One tall, thin figure appeared upon the bridge, and Putt observed it.

"What a maypole!" he cried, "yet how a minces in his going for such a long-legged un!"

"I\'ll wager the man\'s up to no good at this hour. Us have both got hoss pistols: let\'s stop him! \'Twill warm us," exclaimed Bickford.

Thomas agreed, and together they leapt from their hiding-place and blocked the passage of the bridge. Then Putt, at close quarters, stared into the great white face frowning down upon him and nearly fell into the water.

"God\'s Word! \'Tis a ghost from the grave," he shouted. "\'Tis the old varmint us buried after Christmas, come to life an\' got into breeches!"

But Mark Bickford had no imagination.

"If she\'m alive, us never buried her," he declared. "Cock your pistol an\' hold it to her head."

"You stand still, Lovey Lee, an\' give an account of yourself," commanded Putt. "Since you\'m alive, I don\'t care a farden for you."

"That ban\'t my name," answered the ancient woman gruffly. "Stand by an\' let me pass, or I\'ll knock \'e in the river, the pair of \'e!"

"Her can talk an\' tell lies, so her\'s no more a ghost than us," said Bickford. "Now what be you doing here, an\' where be you going, you bad old devil?"

Lovey drew herself up and regarded the two clowns with indignation. She felt it hard that at this critical moment of her life such rubbish should beard her thus. All had fallen out as she desired. Her wealth was secure. In her flat bosom she carried two thousand pounds of paper money provided by Peter Norcot; upon her back was a little box strapped tightly there. For the rest she bore a heavy stick and was now upon her way to Ashburton. Plans were completed for her escape. She would proceed to Dartmouth and thence to France.

Perceiving that she had been recognised, the miser attempted no further evasion. These peasants must be bought and that instantly. Putt was angry with Lovey for the tricks that she had played on honest men; but Bickford appeared merely curious to learn her recent history.

"They wanted to hang you, and still want to," declared Tom. "But now the world thinks as master killed you."

"Let it go on thinking so," said Lovey. "What matter what the world thinks, my bold heroes, so long as you\'ve got money in your purses? I be busy just now, so let me go my way, please, without more speech."

"A man\'s purse be his stronghold as you say," answered Bickford; "an\' mine\'s nought better\'n a shelled peascod this many days; but since there\'s twenty pound on your head, me an\' Putt here will make ten apiece by you."

"Ten pound was offered, not twenty," answered Lovey.

"I say \'twas twenty."

"You\'m a cruel devil to rob an old woman."

"\'Tis the State will pay, not you," answered Bickford.

"An\' you\'m the cruel devil," retorted Putt—"you as have brought Malherb\'s head so low—to the grave a\'most."

"Money\'s money," repeated Bickford, "an\' if you\'ve got any, Mother Lee, now be the time to spend some. Us know you\'m made of it, for all your rags. What\'ll you pay us not to take you along to Prince Town?"

Lovey wrung her hands.

"You silly zanies—me—look at me—clad in a dead man\'s clothes! Money—a few poor pounds scraped together—God He knows how few. An\' a long life of starvation to come by \'em."

"What\'s in thicky box?" asked Bickford abruptly.

"Nought—a mere glass toy kept for old sake\'s sake. A thing not worth a rush but for memory. An\' since you ax for money, I\'ll give \'e half I\'ve got, though \'tis like giving \'e my life\'s blood—a five-pound note to share."

Her greed, even in this tremendous crisis, overreached her wit. A round sum had dazzled the labourers, and they had doubtless accepted it and let her depart, only to regret their conduct too late. But this miserly offer ruined Lovey Lee. Bickford was of a grasping nature also. Now greed met greed, and both man and woman were presently punished.

"\'Tis much too little. Us want to see what be in that box slung so snug on your shoulder."

"An\' see I will," added Tom Putt.

"My solemn word of honour, \'tis no more than a little trashy joney of glass—a keepsake of one long dead. Not worth a shilling to anybody but me. Leave that. Since five won\'t satisfy you I\'ll make it ten. Then I\'m a ruined woman."

"Give me that box—else I\'ll take it," said Putt firmly.

"Not that, not that; if you\'m a man, don\'t touch it. \'Tis everything to me, nought to nobody else. I was lying—I was lying to \'e. I be in such a hurry. I\'ve got more than I said—just a few pounds. Fifty-fifty sovereigns in paper—twenty-five apiece to let me go my way."

"That\'s better," said Putt. "I\'ll close at that if you will, Mark."

"Not me—not now. Her\'s lying still. Us have got her, now us\'ll squeeze her. Us must see what\'s in that box—money or no money. I lay \'tis stuffed with diamonds."

"Oh, Christ!" cried the woman. "What \'tis to deal with two pig-headed fools! Here—here be a hundred pounds—take it and let me pass."

She turned from them, dived in her breast and flourished the notes before their faces.

"Pretty money seemingly, but not enough," said Bickford. "I lay there\'s thousands hid where your damned old heart beats. An\' not a penny of it but what was stolen."

"An\' I be more set than ever on seeing the inside of that there li\'l box," added Putt stolidly. "An\' I be going to, or God\'s my judge, I\'ll take you to Prince Town, Lovey Lee."

The woman stared helplessly upon them.

"There ban\'t no law on your side," continued Putt calmly; "for you\'m dead an\' buried in Widecombe churchyard; and a human, once dead an\' buried, have no more rights than a bird in a tree. So you\'d best to open that box afore I take it away from \'e for good an\' all."

Fire flashed in Lovey\'s eyes and her teeth closed like a trap. More than her life was now at stake; yet she stood powerless before this determined man.

"Will you swear to give it back to me, afore the God of Doom?" she asked, drawing the box round from her shoulder.

"I\'ll swear to nought. If \'tis only a glass image, it be useless to any sensible chap, an\' you can keep it. But if \'tis watches or gold trinkrums, then you\'ve stole \'em, an\' we\'ll take \'em for ourselves," declared Bickford.

"See for yourself, then, you cursed clods! An\' come off this bridge. If it fell!"

The woman\'s anger died as she opened her box; her hands trembled; her man\'s hat had fallen off, and tattered wisps of white hair hung round her head. She sat down, cowered over the treasure, and revealed her sex in this attitude.

Lovey opened her box with utmost care, and from a close packing of sphagnum moss, brought forth the Malherb amphora. Putt took it clumsily, and she screamed to him to be cautious. Bickford then examined the box, and reported that nothing more remained in it.

"Then give my poor vase back for the love of your mothers," she cried. "You see \'twas solemn truth I spoke to \'e."

"First, there\'s the matter of money," answered Bickford. "What money be you going to part with? You\'m made of banknotes by the look of it. Maybe you\'ll never get the chance of setting up two young men in life again."

"If I could get my hands on your dog\'s throat!"

"You can\'t; an\' best be civil, or you\'ll repent it," answered Bickford.

Then he took the amphora from Putt\'s hand, walked twenty yards away, and set it up carefully on a rock.

"You said fifty each," said Mark as he returned. "I lay you meant more." Then the labourer broke off and addressed his companion. "Ban\'t no sin to drag money out of this old mully-grubs; for you know so well as me that she never come by an honest penny in her life. Now I\'ve slicked up her trash \'pon yonder rock, an\' I be going to chuck stones at it till she comes to my figure; and sarve her damn well right, for she\'s bad to the bone—as all Dartymoor knows."

Lovey shrieked and Thomas Putt answered judicially—

"To terrify some money out of her be a fair thing. \'Tis payment for what master suffered."

The woman screamed and groaned. She fell at their feet, clasped their knees, grovelled, uttered blessings and cursings, raved until a steam hung over her lips in the chill air, called upon God and the devil to help her.

"What\'s the figure then?" asked Putt.

"Five hunderd—five hunderd pound this instant between you. For your sweethearts for——"

In answer, and before Putt, who was well satisfied, could stop him, Mark Bickford had flung a stone at the amphora. The pebble started to the right, came round true with the throw, and missed the precious vessel by inches. The woman followed the flight, and a lifetime of agony passed over her in the space of seconds. Then she turned upon Mark and poured forth a flood of appalling curses.

"Ban\'t five hunderd enough?" asked Thomas calmly.

"No, Tom, it ban\'t," answered the avaricious Bickford. "This here\'s the chance of a lifetime. Us\'ll be made men or mice, for evermore."

Putt picked up a stone.

"I do think she\'m rich enough to part with a bit more," he said. "Now I be going to have a chuck, an\' I\'m a better shot than him, ban\'t I, Mark?"

"Yes, you be."

"Three hunderd—three hunderd—four hunderd—four hunderd for each of \'e. I\'d tear my heart out for \'e if I could, you greedy, cruel dogs. Spare it, spare all that an old woman have got in the wide world. If you knew—if——"

Putt flung a stone and took care to do no harm. His missile fell into the river a yard wide. Then Bickford prepared to fling again.

"Third time be lucky," he said. "I\'ll bet you all the old bitch\'s money as I scat un to shivers now."

"Four fifty for each of \'e—four hunderd an\' fifty each; an\' it do leave me picked clean to the bone."

She plunged her hand into her breast and dragged out a pile of notes.

"............