It
seemed a pity to have to die on such a morning, and for one moment there
was regret in the highwayman's soul as he took his place in the cart.
The next he braced himself to play his part, for there were great crowds
in the streets, waiting and making holiday. All eyes were turned,
watching for the procession, for was it not Galloping Hermit who came,
the notorious wearer of the brown mask, the hero of wealth and squalor
alike, the man whose deeds had already passed into legend? No one
thought of him as Gentleman Jack, not even his companions of the
"Punch-Bowl" who were in the crowd to see him pass; not the landlady,
who had come to see the last of him, and stood at the end of the
journey, waiting and watching.
By the steps of St. Sepulchre's Church there was a pause. A woman, one
of a frail sisterhood, yet strangely pretty and innocent to look upon,
held up a great nosegay to the hero of the hour, and as he took it he
bent down and kissed her.
"Don't let another's kiss make you forget this one too soon," he said
gaily, and her lips smiled while there was a sob in her throat.
The cart jogged on again, and at intervals the man buried his face in
the flowers.
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