For a moment the dark shadow upon his brow appeared to partake slightly of chagrin—as if there still lingered some regret, for the promise he had made, and the step he was about to take. The strife between conscience and cupidity seemed not yet definitively decided.
There was another interval of silence, and then came the decision. It was in favour of virtue. Conscience had triumphed.
“I’ll keep my word to him,” cried he, springing to his feet, as if to give emphasis to the resolve. “I’ll keep it, if I shud starve.”
“Disband!” he continued, addressing himself to the silent circle, and speaking in a tone of mock command. “Disband! ye beggars! Your captain, Greg’ry Garth, han’t no longer any need o’ your sarvices. Dang it meeats!” added he, still preserving his tone of mock seriousness, “I be sorry to part wi’ ye. Ye’ve been as true as steel to me; an’ ne’er a angry word as iver passed atween us. Well, it can’t be holp, boys—that it can’t. The best o’ friends must part, some time or other; but afore we sepperates, I’m a-goin’ to purvide for one an’ all on ye. I’ve got a friend over theer in Uxbridge, who keeps a biggish trade goin’ on—they call it panprokin’. It’s a money-making business. I dare say he can find places for o’ ye. Ye be sure o’ doin’ well wi’ him. Ye’ll be in good company, wi’ plenty o’ goold and jeweltry all round ye. Don’t be afeerd o’ what’ll happen to ye. I’ll take duppleickets for yer security; so that in case o’ my needin’ ye again—”
At this crisis the fantastic valedictory of the retiring robber was brought to a sudden termination, by his hearing a sound—similar to those for which his ear had been but too well-trained to listen. It was the footfall of a horse, denoting the approach of a horseman—a traveller. It was neither of those who had just passed over the Heath: since it came from the direction opposite to that in which they had gone—up the road from Redhill.
There was but one horseman—as the hoof-stroke indicated. From the same index it could be told, that he was coming on at a slow pace—a walk in fact—as if ignorant of the road, or afraid of proceeding at a rapid rate along a path, which was far from being a smooth one.
On hearing the hoof-stroke, Gregory Garth instinctively, as instantly, desisted from his farcical apostrophe; and, without offering the slightest apology to his well-behaved auditors, turned his face away from them, and stood listening.
“A single horseman?” muttered he to himself, “Crawlin’ along at snail pace? A farmer maybe, who’s tuk a drap too much at the Saracen’s Head, an’ ’s failed asleep in his saddle? Now I think o’t, it be market day in that thear town o’ Uxbridge.”
The instincts of the footpad—which had for the moment yielded before the moral shock of the humiliating encounter with his old master—began to resume dominion over him.
“Wonder,” continued he, in a muttered tone, “Wonder if the chaw-bacon ha’ got any cash about him? Or have he been, and drunk it all at the inn? Pish! what do it matter whether he have or no? Ha’nt I gone an’ promised Master Henry ’twould be my last night? Dang it! I must keep my word.