entered the market-place.  Her eyes were fixed on the ground, as though to avoid beholding the scene of her humiliation; but the market-cross and the stocks, now that she was within a few yards of them, exerted a strange fascination over her.  Do what she might, she could not refrain from gazing upon them once more, and as she did so a cry of horror escaped her.  In front of the cross hung the lifeless figure of a man.  About his neck was a halter, the other end of which was securely fastened to the broken arms of the cross.

It was Learoyd.  The wretched man, tortured by a sense of guilt, and obsessed with the idea that Mary Whittaker’s act of sacrifice was a cold-blooded device to shame him and aggravate his misery, had hanged himself, choosing as the scene of his death the spot where, fifteen years before, he had exposed his stepdaughter for sale.  In so doing, his warped imagination assured him that the coals of fire which seared his brain would henceforth be poured upon the head of Mary Whittaker.

Such was the end of Samuel Learoyd.  If there was stern retribution in his death so was there also malign mockery.  The chalice of pardon and peace was filled for him, but before he could raise the cup to his lips a fiendish hand had dashed it to the ground and substituted in its place a draught of venomous hemlock.