“In the winter of ’78, when I was home in England on furlough, being sick of a disordered spleen, I was crossing Bagshot Heath one night when I was stopped by a one-eyed gentleman of the road, who was set to coerce me with the usual menaces and braggadocio. But, looking in his face without fear--for it was a brilliant moonlit night and his features clear as print--I noticed them drawn and anguished in a manner beyond words, so that he seemed rather a ghost or boggle of my distemper, which gave me some concern. But quickly recovering myself: ‘My honest gentleman,’ says I, ‘meseems you are more in need of stand for yourself than me.’ Which hearing, he gave out a great groan, and so straightway dropped the muzzle of his pistol. “‘Can you read it so plain?’ says he. ‘Then I tell you I am in hell, and it were a merciful thing to slay me here and now’--and with that he rends his vest, and ‘shoot,’ says he, ‘and end it!’ “Now I got talking to my man, and, to make a short story of it, found him to be a noted heath-cock, one Cutwater”--(Aye, sir--there you have him!)--“as he was called, who had drawn a free living from the road, but was now smitten of a morbid disease of the kidneys and like to die. However, in a clean retirement had he lived for a year--or perhaps two or more--till his disorder came like to madden him; when, with the hope to borrow surcease of agony from the distraction of his ancient calling, he made post to Bagshot and rode out on the heath. “Well, I took him back to my inn, and made him up a drug of my knowledge, and kept him by me for a day or two, thinking to mend the poor sinner before I set upon the Lord’s work with him. And he made a surprising recovery, and was ready to kiss my very feet out of his gratitude. But, so it happened, a summons coming to me from his Majesty’s Court at Windsor, I was to leave him perforce; and presently--my own complaint mending--forth I passed to the war again and from all thought of Master Cutwater. “And now, as worthy Mr. Creel will attest--which has conducted the business, and is my friend and an attorney (and this our same fellow of the road had discovered, it seems)--not three weeks ago, I being again in London this summer of the year ’79, was waited upon by him, and to my astonishment handed over the title deeds of an estate which I had never so much as heard named, being ‘Delsrop’ House in the County of Hants. “For thus it appeared my highwayman had died after all--yet not of his complaint but in some ruffian _mêlée_--having first, however, in gratitude at my service to him willed me this property, which I cannot but regard with perplexity as the wages of sin, inasmuch as it appeareth the reward designed, _in totidem verbis_, for prolonging of a rascal’s life.