Daniel’s wedding day dawned gloriously, and at the lodge gates a splendour of autumn foliage blazed in the morning light. But Mr Sweetland woke black and blue, and stiff in all his joints. He had broken a finger of the right hand; that, however, did not prevent him dressing in his best clothes and setting out to see his son married.

Daniel wished his friend, Titus, to be best man; but the circumstances made that impossible, since poor Sim himself had been a suitor. The lad, Sam Prowse, therefore filled that important post, and Minnie’s aunt, an ancient widow named Mary Maine, gave the bride away.

Daniel and his party were the first to arrive at church; for Mr Sweetland called at the cottage hospital on his way and had his broken finger attended to. There he heard black news, but the keeper kept it to himself and presently joined his wife at church. People began to drop in by twos and threes, and Daniel, from a place in the choir stalls, kept turning his head to the door. But those he looked for did not appear. Neither Titus Sim nor Henry Vivian was at his wedding, and the circumstance cast a gloom upon the bridegroom. He grumbled under his breath to Sam Prowse concerning the matter.

“I could have sworn them two men would have been here, come what might. Titus would never have missed seeing me turned off, if there wasn’t some good reason against it. As for Mr Henry—he gave me his word, an’ his word no man have known him to break. Something be wrong, Prowse, else they’d be here, both of ’em. ’Tis last night’s work in the woods.”

“Be that as it will, better not keep stretching forward so, else you’ll burst thicky coat,” said the cautious Prowse. “I see the seams of un a-bulging over your back something cruel. There’s Johnny Beer an’ his missus. I knowed they’d come.”

Five-and-twenty people formed the little congregation; the vicar appeared; the bride with her aunt walked up the aisle.

Minnie was self-possessed as usual. She wore a light blue dress, white thread gloves, and a hat with a jay’s wing in it that Dan had given her. One swift peep up at the face of her lover she gave, one little smile touched her mouth and vanished; then, without a quiver, she pulled off her gloves and opened her prayer-book. Dan had his ready also. Beside her niece stood Mrs Maine, in a bright purple dress, and a bonnet that trembled with magenta roses and red ribbons. On Daniel’s right young Prowse appeared. He kept one hand in his trouser pocket and held the ring tightly on the tip of his little finger, so that it should be ready for the bridegroom when the critical moment came.

Mrs Sweetland was early dissolved in moisture, and Mrs Beer likewise wept. Matthew Sweetland seemed distracted and his thoughts were elsewhere, for a great terror sat at the man’s heart.

Then the ceremony concluded; the bellringers clattered back to the belfry; the wedding party entered the vestry.

A cloud hung dark over Daniel, and only Minnie had power to lessen it. He signed his name moodily and was loud to all who would listen in expressions of wonder and regret that Henry Vivian and Titus Sim had not been at his wedding.

“Of course there was the battoo at Westcombe—yet somehow—he promised, mind you—he promised. As to Sim, he must be sick; nought but illness would have kept him.”

“Don’t judge the young youth,” said Mary Maine. “You forget he wanted Minnie too. Perhaps, when it comed to the point, he felt he couldn’t bear the wrench of seeing her made over to you by holy Prayer-book for evermore.”

A brave banquet was spread at Mrs Maine’s, and since all invited to it could not get into the parlour, an overflow of feeders took their dinner in the kitchen. Mr Beer’s pleasure was spoilt entirely by this circumstance, and his wife never liked Minnie’s aunt again. For the publican, by reason of his bulk, was invited to join the minor company in the kitchen; and then, when the time came, Daniel roared to him from the other room to come into the parlour and propose the bride’s health.

But this Mr Beer stoutly refused to do. His lady answered for him and her tartness struck all the wedding guests with consternation. Sour words from Mrs Beer were like bad grapes from a good vine.

“We’m very comfortable here, thank you, Mr Sweetland,” she shrilled back in answer to Daniel. “We know our place, since Mrs Maine has made it so clear. Us will tell our own speeches in the kitchen; an’ you can tell yours in the parlour; an’ it may be news to Mrs Maine that all the jugs on our table be empty—have been this long while.”

“An’ the room, small though it be, ban’t so small as the beer was,” added Mr Beer, with the note of an angry blackbird.

The empty jugs were filled; but nothing could remedy Mrs Maine’s error. So she lost her temper and began making pointed remarks about a silk purse and a sow’s ear. The visitors hastened to finish their meal, and Dan’s wedding breakfast ended without speeches or health-drinking. Since the beginning of the festivity there had indeed been a shadow in the air, and men and women whispered under their breath concerning the tragedy of the previous night. But the truth was hidden with general kindness of mind from the young bride and bridegroom. Now, indeed, it could be concealed no longer, and, horrible as a sudden death, there burst upon Daniel Sweetland and his new-made wife the tragedy of their lives.

The time for departure came and Daniel noticed that a crowd considerably larger than might have been expected began to gather at the railings of Mrs Maine’s cottage garden. Once or twice he saw Luke Bartley, the policeman, pass and order the people further back; then, as he himself emerged, with Minnie on his arm, the crowd overpowered Mr Bartley and came close. Daniel stared and his jaw stuck out and hardened, for no cheer or friendly shout greeted him now. Instead there rose hisses in the air and a hoarse under-sound, or growl, as of angry beasts.

Turning to learn the cause, two men suddenly approached him. One was the local inspector of police, a strong, brisk officer in uniform; the other Daniel had never seen before. Even at that tremendous moment young Sweetland’s interest was arrested. The stranger who now spoke to him stood six feet six inches and was evidently as powerful as he was tall. He dwarfed the people about him and his big voice rolled out so that it seemed to smother the church bells, which were now clashing a final peal of farewell to the departing pair.

“Who be you—Goliath of Gath, I should reckon?” said Dan stoutly, as the big man barred his way.

“No matter who I am,” he answered. “The question is—Who are you?”

“’Tis Daniel Sweetland—just married,” declared Inspector Gregory, who knew the Sweetlands well. “Sorry I am, Dan, to come between you an’ the joy of life at this minute; but so it must be. This here man’s a plain-clothes officer from Plymouth; an’ he’ve got the warrants all right an’ regular. You’m arrested for the murder of Adam Thorpe last night in Middlecott Lower Hundred. He was shot in the belly, an’ he died to hospital just after dawn this morning.”

The prisoner fell back and the world swam round him. Then his wife’s small hand came into his.

“Be a man, Dan. Swear afore God you didn’t do it; an’ to God leave the rest,” she said loud and clear so that all heard her.

“Afore God, an’ humans, an’ angels, I be innocent of this,” said Daniel. “Never in all my life have I lifted a hand against any fellow-creature—except Saul Pratt when he insulted me in the street. Who brings this against me? Who charges me?”

The facts were briefly stated—not by the police, but by Daniel’s friend, Titus Sim. He broke through the crowd and spoke in the other’s ear.

“Listen to me, Dan. ’Tis life or death for ’e. Who had your gun last night? All hinges on that. At dawn yesterday I was called up by Mr Henry, and only then did I know what had falled out. He told me of the raid and ordered me to come down straight into the woods an’ search the ground to find any mark or trace of the murderer. For murder it was, because at cock-light came the news from Moreton Hospital that Thorpe was dead. We went—him and me alone—and searched the ground foot by foot. Then I found your gun—one barrel empty, t’other loaded. I knew ’twas the new one he had given you, and, in sudden fear, I was just going to try and hide it. But Mr Henry had seen it. He came over and recognised it at once.”

“If it hinges on that, I’m safe,” said Daniel. “’Tis all right, Minnie. I be safe enough! You go to Hangman’s Hut, ’pon Dartymoor, my bold heroes, an’ you’ll find my gun in its case, where I put it last night with my own hands.”

“Won’t do, Daniel,” answered the Inspector. “We had a warrant for search as well as for arrest. I was at Hangman’s Hut at midday with this man here. Us did no harm, I promise you. But we found the gun-case—empty—also a box of cartridges broke open an’ two missing.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to talk later on,” said the big man. “But you’ve got to come along wi’ us to Plymouth now, Daniel Sweetland, so the sooner we start the better. I hope as you’ll prove yourself innocent with all my heart; but that’s your business. Now I must do mine.”

In an instant Dan’s hands were fastened together. Powerful and stout though he was, he found himself a child in the giant’s grasp. Indeed, the young man made no struggle. He felt dazed and believed that from this nightmare he must presently awaken.

The steel clicked over his wrists and his mother screamed. At the same moment Bartley brought up a dog-cart. In it a big, restive horse leapt to be gone.

Daniel turned to Titus Sim.

“I can’t believe I’m waking, old pal,” he said. “Be I married? Be I dreaming? Murder—to murder a man! Do your best, Titus; do what you can for me. Try an’ bring a spark of hope to father an’ mother. They know I’m innocent of this—so does Minnie. Do what you can. An’ Mr Henry—he don’t think ’twas me? He wouldn’t judge me so cruel?”

“He’s hard and a terrible stickler for justice. But be sure we’ll do what men may, Daniel.”

“Then ’tis to you I’ll trust—to you an’ my own wits. Good-bye, Minnie; keep up your brave heart as well as you can. ’Twill come right. I must think—I can prove—at least. There—be brave, all of ’e. Don’t you weep, mother. You’ve got my solemn word I didn’t do it; an’ if the rope was round my neck, I’d say the same.”

The old woman sank away from him and fainted; Minnie stood close to him until he was helped into the trap; Sim shook his handcuffed hand. The crowd was divided and men’s voices rose in argument. The last to speak was Daniel’s father.

“Keep a stiff upper-lip, my son,” he said. “Us’ll do what we can. I’ll go to Lawyer Jacobs to Newton this very day. Us’ll fight for ’e with all our power.”

Daniel nodded.

“Bid mother cheer up when she comes to,” he said. “I ban’t feared. An’ take care o’ Minnie.”

He sat on the front of the trap and the big man drove. Upon the back seat were Inspector Gregory and the policeman, Luke Bartley.

The horse was given its head, and soon Daniel had vanished. He was to be driven over the Moor to Plymouth.

For a moment Minnie seemed to be forgotten. Then she went quietly to her weeping aunt and kissed her.

“I be going now,” she said.

“Going—going where, you poor, deserted, tibby lamb? Where should you go?”

“To my home,” answered the girl. “I’m Mrs Daniel Sweetland now. I’ve got to keep up Dan’s name afore the world an’ be the mistress of his house. ’Tis waiting for me. I’ll have it vitty for him when he comes backalong.”

“Go up there all alone to that wisht hovel in the middle of them deadly bogs? You sha’n’t do it, Minnie—I won’t let you.”

“An’ the name of the place!” groaned Mr Beer. “I prayed un to alter it too. ’Twas bound to bring ill fortune. Now ’tis an omen.”

“I’m going, however. ’Tis my duty. An’ so soon as may be I’ll get down to Plymouth to see him,” declared the girl.

A cab, that was to have driven Daniel and Minnie, still waited. Now she walked to it and opened the door.

“Drive me up to Warren Inn ’pon Dartymoor, my boy,” she said. “From there I can walk.”

Then she turned and approached Mrs Sweetland.

“My place is in his home, mother. Don’t you fear nothing. I’ll be a good wife to your son, an’ a good daughter to you. Our Dan be in the hands of God. Good-bye, all—good-bye.”

She drove away, and the men who had hissed at her husband cheered her.

“Dammy—a good pucked un!” cried a thin, gnarled figure with a green shade over his eye. “Lucky’s the he that gets that she, whether it be yon chap or another after he swings!”

The man was called Rix Parkinson, and he held the proud dual position of leading drunkard and leading poacher in Moreton. He was drunk now, but people nearly always found themselves in agreement with him when he was sober and cared to talk.

A buzz and babel turned round Mrs Maine and the Sweetlands. Then the gamekeeper and Titus Sim talked apart.

“There’s a train to Newton Abbot half after six,” said Matthew. “I’ll go by it an’ have a tell with Lawyer Jacobs.”

“And what I can do with Mr Henry I will do,” said Sim.

His eyes were upon Minnie Sweetland’s carriage as it drove away with the little blue figure sitting bravely in it—alone.

Johnny Beer’s wife had been forgotten, and she wept in a small circle of children who had gathered about her.

“What a wedding night for a dinky maiden!” sobbed Jane Beer; “but me an’ my man will go over to hearten her up, if ’tis in mortal power to do it.”

Anon the people scattered, and the day was done. A grey gloaming settled upon the Moor, and their eternal cloud-caps rolled over the tors and stifled the light of evening.

A dog-cart with a fine trotting horse in it swept along over the long, straight stretch to the Warren Inn, and some miles in the rear of it Daniel Sweetland’s wife followed behind. She sat in an open fly and was drawn by an old grey mare who had assisted at a hundred weddings. But her driver had taken the ribbons off his whip and flung away the flowers from his buttonhole. He numbered only twelve years; yet he had sense to see that the moment was not one for show of joy.

“They’ll never hang such a rare fine chap,” he said; “I’m sure they never would do such a terrible rash thing, miss.”