It was so arranged.  Fergus went on his way, as did Reilly and the bishop.  The latter conducted him to the house of a middling farmer, whose son the bishop had sent, at his own expense, to a continental college.  They were both received with the warmest affection, and, so far as the bishop was concerned, with every expression of the deepest gratitude.  The situation was remote, and the tumult of pursuit did not, reach them.  Reilly privately forced upon the farmer compensation for their support, under a solemn injunction that he should not communicate that circumstance to the bishop, and neither did he.  They were here, then, comparatively safe, but still Reilly dreaded the active vigilance of his deadly enemy, Sir Robert Whitecraft.  He felt that a disguise was absolutely necessary, and that, without it, he might fall a sacrifice to the diabolical vengeance of his powerful enemy.  In the course of about ten days after he had commissioned Fergus to procure him the disguise, he resolved to visit widow Buckley, in order to make the necessary exchange in his apparel.  He accordingly set out—­very foolishly we must admit—­in open day, to go to the widow’s house.  The distance was some miles.  No appearance of danger, or pursuit, was evident, until he came to the sharp angle of the road, where he was met by four powerful constables, who, on looking at him, immediately surrounded him and made him prisoner.  Resistance was impossible; they were well armed, and he was without any weapon with which he could defend himself.

“We have a warrant for your apprehension, sir,” said one of them.

“Upon what grounds?” replied Reilly.  “I am conscious of no offence against the laws of the land.  Do you know who I am? and is my name in your warrant?”

“No, but your appearance answers completely to the description given in the Hue and Cry.  Your dress is the same as that of the robber, and you must come with us to the sheriff whom you have robbed.  His house is only a quarter of a mile from this.”

They accordingly proceeded to the sheriff’s house, whom they found at home.  On being informed that they had captured the man “who had robbed him, he came downstairs with great alacrity, and in a spirit replete with vengeance against the robber.  The sheriff, however, was really a good-natured and conscientious man, and would not lend himself to a dishonorable act, nor had he ever been known to do so.  When he appeared, Reilly addressed him: 

“I am here, sir,” said he, “under a charge of having robbed you.  The charge against me is ridiculous.  I am a gentleman, and never was under the necessity of having recourse to such unlawful means of raising money.”

“Well,” replied the sheriff, “your dress is precisely the same as the fellow wore when he robbed me.  But I feel confident that you are not the man.  Your hair is black, his was red, and he had large red whiskers.  In the excitement and agitation of the moment I forgot to mark the villain’s features distinctly; but I have since thought over the matter, and I say that I would now know him if I saw him again.  This, however,” he added, turning—­to the constables, “is not the person who robbed and beat me down from my horse.”