Volume One—Chapter Eleven.
After seeing the two travellers ride off, the disappointed footpad stood listening, till the hoof-strokes of their horses died upon the distant road.
Then, flinging himself upon a bank of earth, and, having assumed a sitting posture—with his elbows resting upon his knees, and his bearded chin reposing between the palms of his hands—he remained for some moments silent as the Sphinx, and equally motionless.
His features betrayed a strange compound of expressions—not to be interpreted by any one ignorant of his history, or of the adventure that had just transpired. The shadow of a contrite sadness was visible upon his brow; while in his dark grey eye could be detected a twinkle of chagrin—as he thought of the pair of purses so unexpectedly extricated from his grasp.
Plainly was a struggle passing within his bosom. Conscience and cupidity had quarrelled—their first outfall for a long period of time. The contending emotions prevented speech; and, it is superfluous to say, his companions respected his silence.
In the countenance of Gregory Garth, despite his criminal calling—even in his worst moments—there were lines indicative of honesty. As he sate by the roadside—that roadside near which he had so often skulked—with the moon shining full upon his face, these lines gradually became more distinctly defined; until the criminal cast completely disappeared from his features, leaving only in its place an expression of profound melancholy. But for the mise en scène, and the dramatis personae surrounding him, any one passing at the moment might have mistaken him for an honest man, suffering from some grave and recent misfortune.
But as no one passed, he was left free to indulge, both in his sorrow and his silence.
At length the latter came to an end. The voice of the penitent footpad—no longer in the stern accents of menace and command, but in soft subdued tones—once more interrupted the stillness of the night.
“Oh lor—oh lor!” muttered he, “who’d a believed I shud ha’ holden my pike to the breast o’ young master Henry? Niver a thought had I to use it. Only bluster to make ’em yield up; but he’ll think as how I intended it all the same. Oh lor—oh lor! he’ll niver forgi’ me! Well, it can’t a’ be holp now; an’ here go to keep the promise I’ve made him. No more touchin’ o’ purses, or riflin’ o’ fine ladies on this road. That game be all over.”