“Ay, ay,” muttered Sorrocold. “God send her a speedy death!”
“She’s sure of it with me,” returned Mauger, “so you may rest easy on that score.” And as he turned the grindstone quickly round, drawing sparks from the steel, he chaunted; as hoarsely as a raven, the following ditty:—
The axe was sharp, and heavy as lead,
As it touched the neck, off went the head!
Wh i r—wh i r—wh i r—wh i r!
And the screaming of the grindstone formed an appropriate accompaniment to the melody.
Queen Anne laid her white throat upon the block,
Quietly waiting the fatal shock;
The axe it severed it right in twain,
And so quick—so true—that she felt no pain!