The scaffold stands in morning’s air,
Crowds wave-like round her spread,
Their eyes upraised to see her die,
No heart to breathe a pitying sigh—
The prison stones her bed.—Michell.
Malcolm Montrose, nearly maddened by despair, threw himself into a carriage, and drove swiftly after the prison van in which Eudora was taken back to gaol.
He was met at the prison entrance by the warden, of whom he urgently demanded:
“Where is she? How is she? Has she recovered her consciousness? Oh, Anderson! let me go to her at once!”
“Mr. Montrose, I am very sorry for you, and my heart bleeds for her; but I must do my duty, and tell you that you cannot see her,” said the warden, sorrowfully.
“Why, how is this?” groaned Malcolm.