Behind them appeared the Lieutenant of the Tower of London, with Lord Rich, and between them was Robert d'Esclade, fifth Duke of Wessex, the prisoner.
Dressed all in black, he looked distinctly older than the crowd had remembrance of him. A sigh of excited anticipation went all along the line, a regular bousculade ensued; the people behind trying to catch a nearer glimpse of the Duke and pushing those who were in front. The 'prentices, who were squatting in the foremost rank on the ground, were violently jerked forward, some fell on their faces right up against the Lieutenant and my lord Rich, seeing which and the general excited confusion the Duke was observed to smile.
A woman in the crowd murmured—
"The Lord bless his handsome face!"
"Heaven ward Your Grace!" added another.
The women's pity—and that only momentarily. And the awful publicity of it all! Among the men wagers were offered and taken in his hearing as he passed, whether sentence of death would be passed on him or not.
"Will they hang him, think you?"
"No, no, 'tis always the axe for noble lords; but they'll have him drawn and quartered for sure."
"God help Your Grace!" sighed the women.
Indeed, if pride was a deadly sin, how deadly was its punishment now.