For I touched her head, and away it flew!
Whir—whir—whir—whir!
“A brave song, and well sung,” cried Wolfytt, approvingly. “Have you any more of it?”
“No,” replied Mauger, significantly. “I shall make another verse to-morrow. My axe is now as sharp as a razor,” he added, feeling its edge. “Suppose we go to the scaffold? It must be up by this time.”,
“With all my heart,” replied Sorrocold, whose superstitious curiosity was fully awakened.
Shouldering the heavy block with the greatest ease, Mauger directed Wolfytt to bring a bundle of straw from a heap in the corner, and extinguishing the lamp, set forth. It was a sharp, frosty night, and the hard ground rang beneath their footsteps. There was no moon, but the stars twinkled brightly down, revealing every object with sufficient distinctness. As they passed Saint Thomas’s Tower, Wolfytt laughingly pointed out Bret’s head stuck upon a spike on the roof, and observed,—“That poor fellow made Xit a knight.”
