“’Tis a pity we could not hang the old rogue more prettily,” said Captain Culpeper, when all their exertions had failed of their effect. “For if ever a man did merit a hanging, here he lies. He hath played a double game all through. But what he could have hoped to gain by it, for the life of me I cannot see. He must have been a sanguine fellow to think that he could run with the hare, and hunt with the dogs. He must have known that he went in danger of being torn to pieces. But why he should first betray the King, and then promote his escape, passes me completely. A queer old rogue, this landlord. Now then, lift him up, lads, and set him in the place he himself did choose.” They placed the noose around the landlord’s neck and bore him out into the shrewd air of the morning. It was still as dark as pitch; never a star looked out of the sky; mercifully the moon had hidden her face; and thus the body of the landlord was unregarded, as it swung in the wintry darkness from the signboard of the “Sea Rover.” THE END. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.