A tear trickled from each eye, and rolled slowly down the cheeks of that man whose heart had been so brutalized by his fearful calling.
Kate rose from her chair, and threw herself into his arms, exclaiming, "Uncle—dear uncle, if you speak kindly to me, I am indeed happy!"
Gibbet cried, and yet laughed—sobbed, and yet smiled, in so strange a manner, as he contemplated that touching scene, that the result of his emotions presented the most ludicrous aspect.
"Sit down, Kate dear," said Smithers: "I am not used to be childish;—and yet, I don't know how it is, but I don't seem ashamed of dropping a tear now. I know I'm a harsh, brutal man: but what has made me so? God, who can read all hearts, has it written down in his book that I was once possessed of the same kind feelings as other people. However—it's no use talking: what I am I must remain until the end."
"Believe me," exclaimed Richard Markham, who was ever sensibly alive to the existence of generous feelings in others,—"believe me," he cried, grasping Smithers' hand, "society lost a good man when you undertook your present avocation."
"What, sir!" ejaculated Smithers, unfeignedly surprised; "do you shake hands with the Public Executioner?"
"Yes—and unblushingly would I do so before the whole world," replied Markham, "when I discover at the bottom of his soul a spark—aye, even the faintest spark of noble and exalted feeling yet unquenched."
The Public Executioner fixed upon the animated and handsome countenance of our hero a glance of the deepest gratitude—a glance of respect, almost of veneration!
He then cast down his eyes, and appeared to plunge into profound rumination.
"You were going to tell us, Miss Katherine," said Benstead, "what observation it was that prevented you from communicating to your uncle the notice Mrs. Kenrick had given you to leave."