The cavalier had levelled his cocked pistol. His finger was upon the trigger. In another second the shot would have been discharged; and in all likelihood his assailant would have been lying lifeless at the feet of his horse.
All at once, the outstretched arm was seen to drop; while at the same instant from the horseman’s lips issued an exclamation of singular import.
“Gregory Garth!” cried he, “you a highwayman—a robber? About to rob—to murder—”
“My old master!” gasped out the man, suddenly lowering the point of his pike. “Be it you? Pardon! O pardon, Sir Henry! I didn’t know ’twas you.”
And as the speaker gave utterance to the last words, he dashed his weapon to the ground, and stood over it in a cowering and contrite attitude—not daring to raise his eyes to the face of him who had brought the affair to such an unexpected ending.
“O Master Henry!” he again cried, “will you forgive me! Brute as I am, ’twould ha’ broke my heart to a hurted a hair o’ your head. Curse the crooked luck that’s brought me to this!”
For some moments there was a profound silence—unbroken by any voice. Even the companions of the robber appeared to respect the situation: since not one of them moved or made remark of any kind!
Their humiliated chief was himself the first to put a period to this interval of embarrassment.
“O Master Henry!” he exclaimed, apparently in a paroxysm of chagrin. “Shoot me! Kill me if ye like! After what’s passed, I doan’t desarve no better than to die. There’s my breast! Send yer bullet through it; an’ put an end to the miserable life o’ Greg’ry Garth!”
While speaking, the footpad pulled open the flap of his doublet—laying bare before the moonlight a broad sinewy breast, thickly covered with coarse black hair.