Just then, the door was opened, and Sir John Fryer, one of the sheriffs, came in, and, with a grave salutation, inquired if he was ready.
“Perfectly,” replied Lord Derwentwater.
Casting a farewell look at the good priest, he then followed the sheriff, who marched before him with his men, through two lines of foot-guards to the scaffold.
All was prepared.
The executioner was standing beside the block with the axe in his hand.
Not far from him were two assistants, and near them was the coffin.
A slight murmur arose from the vast concourse as the Earl of Derwentwater appeared on the scaffold, but it was a murmur of admiration—all being struck by his slight, graceful figure, seen to the greatest advantage in his black velvet attire.
“May I say a few words to the assemblage, Sir John?” asked the earl.
“Assuredly, my lord,” replied the sheriff.
The earl then advanced towards the rail of the scaffold, and as it was evident he was about to address them, the concourse became instantly silent, and every eye was fixed upon him.