confused by the unexpected capture, and forgetful of where he had
placed the key, or desirous to gain time in the hope that help might
arrive--whatever might have been the motive, no time was granted, the
same stern voice instantly adding,

"The key is in the right pocket of your pantaloons: give it to me at
once."

With a trembling hand, the constable produced the key from his pocket,
and was confirmed, by what followed, in the belief that his captor
must have a coadjutor, for he still kept his hold, and uttered the
single word "here," as if addressing another, and handing him the key.
Presently, the handcuffs were thrown down at his feet, and he thought
he could detect the sound of receding footsteps. His captor then
demanded the mittimus, which he tore into small pieces, and scattered
around. In this condition muffled so that he could hardly breathe,
with a desperado, or he knew not how many at his side, who, at the
least attempt to make an outcry, might do him some bodily injury or
perhaps murder him, the next quarter of an hour seemed a whole dismal
night to the unfortunate Basset. At the expiration of that time, his
guard addressed him again, and in the same carefully feigned voice:

"You are in my power, and who would know it were I to leave your
corpse to stiffen on the snow? But I bear you no ill will, and have
no intention to hurt you. I would not harm a hair of your head. I will
not subject you even to the inconvenience of having these fetters on
your wrists, though you were unfeeling enough to place them on a man,
the latchet of whose shoes you are unworthy to unloose. Be thankful
for the forebearance, and show that you know how to appreciate it.
Mark what I say. Remain where you are, nor venture to remove the