Shortly after this the prison door opened slowly. One of the gaolers stood in the portal.
There was now a cry of “hats off” and a thousand heads were bared, a thousand faces upturned.
One would have believed it was a performance at the theatre they were witnessing.
Gregson appeared, bound and pinioned. This was the signal for groans and hisses, which were, however, supressed by the more discreet and better-behaved portion of the throng.
Behind Gregson was the chaplain, with an open Prayer-book in his hand, the sheriffs in their robes, the officers of the gaol, the myrmidons of the gallows.
A regiment of policemen encircled the scaffold with their truncheons drawn.
A trembling ran through the crowd, which resembled the waves of the sea beneath the first blast of the north wind.
This was followed by a murmur like that of the waves when the wind lashes them into wrath.
The crowd became hushed and silent.
The chaplain began to read the service of the dead.