Indeed, it
was his part in the unhappy battle that cost him his life, and there is
a strange irony in the reflection that, on the self-same day whereon Sir
Thomas Urquhart lost his precious manuscripts in Worcester's kennels,
the neck of James Hind was made ripe for the halter. His capture was due
to treachery. Towards the end of 1651 he was lodged with one Denzys, a
barber, over against St. Dunstan's Church in Fleet Street. Maybe he had
chosen his hiding-place for its neighbourhood to Moll Cutpurse's own
sanctuary. But a pack of traitors discovered him, and haling him before
the Speaker of the House of Commons, got him committed forthwith to
Newgate.
At first he was charged with theft and murder, and was actually
condemned for killing George Sympson at Knole in Berkshire. But the day
after his sentence, an Act of Oblivion was passed, and Hind was put upon
trial for treason. During his examination he behaved with the utmost
gaiety, boastfully enlarging upon his services to the King's cause.
'These are filthy jingling spurs,' said he as he left the bar, pointing
to the irons about his legs, 'but I hope to exchange them ere long.'
His good-humour remained with him to the end. He jested in prison as he
jested on the road, and it was with a light heart that he mounted the
scaffold built for him at Worcester. His was the fate reserved for
traitors: he was hanged, drawn, and quartered, and though his head was
privily stolen and buried on the day of execution, his quarters were
displayed upon the town walls, until time and the birds destoyed{sic}
them utterly.
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