The Brown Mask | Page 5

sentence was pronounced the girl rose to her feet and turned to go.
In truth, it had been no wish of hers to come. The judge, the people,
and the whole atmosphere sickened her. She longed to get away, to feel
the fresh air upon her cheek; and in her anxiety to depart she took no
particular trouble to make sure that her companion was following her.
There was a hasty crushing on all sides of her, and as she was carried
forward she became conscious that she was alone, that she was being
stared at and commented upon by some of those who were about her.
She ought not to be there, she felt it rather than knew it, and was
painfully aware that people were judging her accordingly. One man
spoke to her, and in her effort to escape his attentions she contrived to
thrust herself into a corner of an outer lobby, and waited.

"Can I be of service?"
For a moment she thought that the man she had escaped from had
found her, and she turned indignantly. The steady grey eyes that met
hers were eyes to trust--she felt that at once. This was quite a different
person. He was young, with a face grave beyond his years, and a sense
of strength about him likely to appeal to a woman.
"I am waiting for my aunt, Lady Bolsover," she said, the colour
mounting to her cheeks under his steady gaze, and then, suddenly
anxious that he should not think evil of her, she added: "I did not want
to come. It was horrible."
"Your aunt must have missed you," he said, glancing round the almost
empty lobby, for the crowd had poured out into the street by this time.
"If you have a coach waiting, may I take you to it?"
"Oh, please--do."
The crowd was dense in the street, and their progress was slow, but the
man forced a way for her. His face gave evidence that it would be
dangerous for anyone to throw a jest at his companion. There was a
general inclination to give him the wall as he went.
"I am glad you did not come here willingly," he said suddenly, as
though no other thought had been in his mind all this time. "This is no
place for a woman."
"Indeed, no. I am wondering why a man should be here either."
"Galloping Hermit once did me a kindness. I would like to repay the
debt."
"But how? What could you do?"
"I could not tell. Something might have happened to give me an
opportunity. It did not; still, I shall see him presently. Perhaps I may yet
be able to do him some small service."

"Oh, I hope so, poor man," she answered. "There is the coach, and my
aunt. She will thank you."
Lady Bolsover, who was talking to Lord Rosmore, did not appear
agitated, but she hurried forward when she caught sight of her niece.
"My child, I have been consumed with anxiety, and--"
"This gentleman--" the girl began, and then stopped. The man had not
followed her as she went to meet her aunt. He had disappeared.
There came no intervention on the prisoner's behalf in the days that
followed, nor did he set up any plea for his life on the ground of
knowing of plots against the King's Majesty. This would be to shirk the
day of reckoning, and he had boasted to his companions at the
"Punch-Bowl" that they should see him play the game to the end. He
would fulfil this promise to the letter. He had ridden up Holborn Hill
scores of times, seeking spoil and adventure on Hounslow Heath or
elsewhere; he would journey up it once more, and pay the price like a
gentleman. It would be no lonely journey; there would be excitement
and triumph in it. He had lived his life and enjoyed it; he had allowed
nothing to stand in the way of his desires; he had pressed into a few
short years far more satisfaction than any other career could have given
him. Why should he whimper because the end came early? It would be
a good end to make, full of movement and colour. He knew, for he had
been a spectator when others had taken that journey, and he was of
more importance than they were. The whole town was ringing with his
fame. Why should he have regrets? Beauty and fashion came to visit
him, and one man came to thank him for some former kindness, a
trivial matter that the highwayman had thought nothing of and had
forgotten.
It came, that last morning, a fine morning flushed with the new life of
the world that trembles hesitatingly in the spring of the