"Not ye? Ah, now harken! Know'st Jim Harker, the court-leet man and king's officer at Wareham?"
A shake of the head was the only reply, though the accused man shook more violently than before.
"No? Then methinks ye'll know him no more on this earth, for he's dead!"
The speaker paused to mark the effect of his words, then he continued:
"An', what's more, we killed him close to Arishmell Gap. 'Twas his own doin'. But on him we found this. Now, being no scholard, I ax Master Fallowfield to read what's on this paaper."
Master Fallowfield, who, as I afterwards learned from the conversation, was the parish clerk of Worth Matravers church on Sabbaths and holydays, and an arrant smuggler at other times, took the paper and read in a sonorous voice a message from a neighbouring justice to the ill-fated James Harker, telling him that the reward due to the informer Crocker would be paid at any time after Martinmas.
A deathly silence, broken only by the short gasps of the doomed wretch, followed this announcement.
"And the sentence is----?"
"Death! Death!" shouted the smugglers with no uncertain voice. Crocker made a desperate effort, shook off the men who advanced to hold him, and, flinging himself down before the captain, clasped his knees and begged for mercy. In a second, however, his executioners sprang upon him and bound him hand and foot, and a scarf was fastened over his eyes. One of the men drew a pistol. I watched the scene, for the moment unmindful of my dangerous position, but drawn by an indescribable feeling to watch the last moments of a doubly-dyed rogue.
Slowly the pistol was raised till its muzzle was level with the doomed man's temple. I could even see the smuggler's finger resting lightly on the trigger, while his eyes were turned towards the leader as if awaiting the signal to fire. The remainder of the rascals looked on impassively, as if thoroughly used to this kind of rough-and-ready justice.