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 year, and
steeps the hearts of men and women with stronger hope and wider
ambition; such a morning as draws a veil over past failures and
disappointments, and floods the future with success and achievement. 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,