“Alas! why did they come hither?” groaned Carver.
“That is best known[known] to themselves,” rejoined Brand; “but they have done me a good turn by coming.”
“Have you aught to confess or declare concerning them?” demanded the sheriff.
“An idle question,” rejoined Carver. “Think you I would say aught to their detriment?”
Thereupon, the sheriff, bidding the officers bring forth the prisoner, quitted the cell, and was presently followed by the others. Several persons were assembled in the inn-yard, and amongst them were Dame Dunster and her handmaidens, weeping bitterly, to whom Carver bade an eternal adieu, bidding them be comforted.
The gates, which had been hitherto kept closed, were then thrown open, and the prisoner becoming visible to a portion of the vast assemblage collected in the street, loud cries arose.
The stake, as we have already mentioned, was planted in the middle of the High-street, exactly opposite the Star Inn, where the throughfare was widest. Around the place of execution a large circular space was kept clear by the constables and other officers armed with halberds, and within this ring was heaped up a great pile of fagots with bundles of dried gorse. In front of the stake stood the large empty tar-barrel, commanded by Captain Brand. It was reared on end, and the top had been staved in. Such were the preparations made for the terrible ceremonial.
Into this ring Derrick Carver marched with firm footstep, and his appearance was greeted with outcries of various kinds from the beholders. He was closely attended by Father Josfrid, who continued to press exhortations upon him, to which he refused to listen. At this juncture Captain Brand came up to him, and said, “Thy life shall be spared for a few minutes, that thou mayst know the fate of thy friends.” He then added to the officers: “Chain him not to the stake till you receive the sheriff’s signal from yonder window.”
And he pointed, as he spoke, to a large open window on the first floor of the inn, which, unlike all the other windows of the house, was destitute of spectators. Every spot, indeed, commanding a view of the place of execution was occupied. The entrance to St. Mary’s-lane was blocked up by a small party of horsemen, who, it need scarcely be said, were Osbert Clinton and his friends. They had stationed themselves at this point in order to secure a retreat in case of need, but were wholly unaware that a party of armed men were slowly ascending the narrow throughfare in their rear.
On quitting Derrick Carver, Captain Brand returned to the inn-yard, where he had left his officers, and, putting himself at their head, was about to sally forth and make the arrest he meditated, when his plan was most unexpectedly thwarted by Dame Dunster, who, suddenly appearing at the open window which we have described as reserved for the high sheriff and his attendants, leaned from it, and waving a kerchief to attract the attention of Osbert and his friends, called out to them in a loud voice,—