“I am sorry, sir,” said the Colonel, with a sneer, “to spoil your highly virtuous device of holy matrimony, but as the proverb hath it, ‘Marriages are made in heaven,’ and we intend to send you there. Sergeant! the halter!”
A murmur of surprise and horror ran through the crowd. Gabriel felt as if a grisly hand had suddenly clutched his heart. He glanced anxiously at Hilary. Her face was marble white, she seemed scarcely conscious.
“Nay, sir, will you proceed so far?” cried Waghorn, with a troubled look. “This can be no hanging matter.”
“What is it to you, fellow?” said Norton, haughtily. And with satisfaction he saw the sergeant slip a rope about Gabriel’s neck, and noted that a spasm of pain passed over the prisoner’s face. He was too young and healthy to be without a most ardent love of life.
“Sir, sir,” cried the Vicar, with passionate indignation, “you cannot take so cruel a revenge! Captain Harford may lawfully be a prisoner of war, but——”
“He is a rebel, and I know for a certainty that he bore about him traitorous despatches. Is it not so?” said Norton, sharply turning towards the parliamentarian.
“If you know, why ask?” said Gabriel.
“Answer me!” cried the Colonel, angrily. “Did you not bear despatches?”
“Your own spy hath already answered you. And for the despatches,” said Gabriel, triumphantly, “you’ll not get them. They are long ere now delivered.”
“Away with him, sergeant! String him up to yonder tree,” said Norton.