On reaching the Green, they found Manger’s conjecture right—the scaffold was nearly finished. Two carpenters were at work upon it, nailing the planks to the posts, and the noise of their hammers resounded in sharp echoes from the surrounding habitations. Hurrying forward, Mauger ascended the steps, which were placed on the north, opposite Saint Peter’s chapel, and deposited his burthen on the platform. He was followed more leisurely by Sorrocold; and Wolfytt, throwing the straw upon the ground, scrambled after them as well as he could.
“If I had thought it was so sold, I would have taken another pull at the stone bottle,” he said, rubbing his hands.
“Warm yourself by helping the carpenter,” replied Sorrocold gravely. “It will do you more good.”
Wolfytt laughed, and dropping on his knees, grasped the block with both hands, and placed his neck in the hollowed space.
“Shall I try whether I can take your head off?” demanded Mauger, feigning to draw his dagger.
Apprehensive that the jest might be carried a little too far, Wolfytt got up, and imitated, as well as his drunken condition would allow, the actions of a person addressing the multitude and preparing for execution. In bowing to receive the blessing of the priest, he missed his footing a second time, and rolled off the scaffold. He did not attempt to ascend again, but supported himself against one of the posts near the carpenters. Mauger and Sorrocold took no notice of him, but began to converse in an under tone about the apparition. In spite of himself, the executioner could not repress a feeling of dread, and the chirurgeon half-repented his curiosity.
After a while, neither spoke, and Sorrocold’s teeth chattered, partly with cold, partly with terror. Nothing broke the deathlike silence around, except the noise of the hammer, and ever and anon, a sullen and ominous roar proceeding from the direction of the Lions’ Tower.
“Do you think it will appear?” inquired Sorrocold, whose blood ran cold at the latter awful sounds.