The man moved a little, and the moonlight shone full on his face, clearly outlining the large nose and good-humoured mouth, and above, the sleepy grey eyes. Miles! Miles O'Hara! For once Jack could find nothing amusing in the situation. It was too inconceivably hideous that he should meet his friend in this guise, and, further, be unable to reveal himself. A great longing to tear off his mask and to grasp Miles' hand assailed him. With an effort he choked it down and listened to what O'Hara was saying:
"If ye will be so kind as to give me your word of honour ye'll not be afther trying to escape, I should be greatly obliged. But I tell ye first that if ye attempt to move, I shall shoot."
Jack made a hopeless gesture with his hand. He felt dazed. The whole thing was ridiculous; how Miles would laugh afterwards. He went cold. There would be no "afterwards".... Miles would never know.... He would be given over to the authorities, and Miles would never know that he had helped Jack Carstares to the scaffold.... Perhaps, too, he would not mind so very much, now that he, Jack, was so disgraced. One could never tell; even if he risked everything now, and told his true identity, Miles might turn away from him in disgust; Miles, who could never stoop to a dishonourable act. Carstares felt that he would bear anything sooner than face this man's scorn....
"Never tell me 'tis a dumb man ye are, for I heard ye shout meself! Do ye give me your word of honour, or must I have ye bound?"
Carstares pulled himself together and set his teeth as he faced the inevitable. Escape was impossible; Miles would shoot, he felt sure, and then his disguise would be torn away and his friend would see that Jack Carstares was nothing but a common highwayman. Whatever happened, that must not be, for the sake of the name and Richard. So he quietly held out his hands.
"Ay, I give my word, but ye can bind me if ye choose." It was his highwayman voice: raucous, and totally unlike his own.
But O'Hara's eyes were fixed on the slender white hands held out to him. In his usual haphazard fashion, Jack had quite forgotten to grime his hands. They were shapely and white, and carefully manicured.
Miles took either wrist in his large hands and turned them palm upwards in the moonlight.
"Singularly white hands ye have, for one in your profession," he drawled, and tightened his hold as Jack tried to draw them away. "No, ye do not! Now be so good as to step within, me friend."
Jack held back an instant.