"I wish I had throttled her the night she described the scene of the murder! But mum; here comes the prisoner. By Jove! how well he looks! how bravely he bears up against his fate! Does not the sight of that proud pale face make you feel rather queerish?"
"Away with your scruples; his death makes rich men of us."
The prisoner ascended the platform, supported by Frederic Wildegrave and the good chaplain. A breathless pause succeeded, and he became the central point to which all eyes were directed. His hat was off, and the expression of his face was calm and resigned; the dignity of conscious innocence was there. He turned his fine dark eyes with a pitying glance on the upturned faces of the gazing crowd; the hisses and groans with which they had greeted his first appearance were hushed; a death-like stillness fell upon that vast assemblage, and many a rugged cheek was moistened with tears of genuine compassion.
"Hark, he is about to speak! Is it to confess his crime?"
In deep clear tones he addressed the multitude. "Fellow-men, you are assembled here this day to see me die. You believe me guilty of a dreadful crime; the most dreadful crime that a human creature can commit—the murder of a parent. Here, before you all, and in the presence of Almighty God, I declare my innocence. I neither committed the murder nor am I acquainted with the perpetrators of the deed. God will one day prove the truth of my words. To Him I leave the vindication of my cause; He will clear from my memory this infamous stain. Farewell!"
"He cannot be guilty!" exclaimed some.
"The hardened wretch!" cried others. "To take God's name in vain, and die with a lie upon his lips."
The prisoner now resigned himself to the hangman's grasp; but whilst the fatal noose was adjusting, a cry—a wild, loud, startling cry—broke upon the crowd, rising high into the air and heard above all other sounds. Again and again it burst forth, until it seemed to embody itself into intelligible words; "Stop! stop!" it cried, "stop the execution! He is innocent! he is innocent!"
The crowd caught up the cry; and "He is innocent! he is innocent!" passed from man to man. A young female was now seen forcing a passage through the dense mass. The interest became intense; every one drew closer to his neighbor, to make way for the bearer of unexpected tidings, who, arriving within a few yards of the scaffold, again called out in shrill tones, which found an echo in every benevolent heart—"Godfrey Hurdlestone and William Mathews are the real murderers. I heard them form the plot. I saw the deed done!"
"Damnation!—we are betrayed!" whispered Godfrey to his colleague in crime, as they fled from the scene.