“Why,” he cried, “I would live in hellish torments to save her from such as you—and shall I fear death? You think that when I am hung and the Vicar cast into gaol, you will be free to carry out your vile schemes—but I tell you, in spite of all, evil will not triumph. There is a God who hates tyranny, who loves mercy and justice!”
His whole face was transfigured. It was Norton whose cheek paled and who looked like the man about to die.
“String him up, sergeant. I loathe this cant,” he said. “Be quick, you fools—hang the rebel and have done with it!”
The soldiers threw the end of the rope over a branch of the tree under which they stood; the sergeant adjusted the noose more carefully round the prisoner’s neck, and Gabriel gave one last glance at the familiar scene—the tower of refuge clearly outlined against the roseate sky, the green churchyard, the old cross so curiously linked with his fate, the gabled houses in the village street, and the Vicar’s white head bent down over Hilary’s brown curls. Then the rope tightened about his throat, he closed his eyes and prayed, while through his brain there floated the old Psalm which he had last heard in Ledbury High Street
“In trouble and adversity,
The Lord God hear thee still.
The Majesty of Jacob’s God
Defend thee from all ill.”
Suddenly an exclamation and a sound of tramping feet made him open his eyes again. He saw that another detachment of Royalist soldiers was marching through the lych gate, but close at hand, having evidently approached quietly from another quarter, stood an officer whom he at once recognised as Lord Hopton.
“Hold, in the King’s name!” shouted the new-comer, and the sickening pressure about the prisoner’s neck was relaxed.