was not of this number; but her father sternly compelled her to be a witness of the dismal scene.  The hour of noon was fast approaching, and the bell of the cathedral heavily and solemnly tolled the knell of the unfortunate Spenser.  The fatal cavalcade approached the place of execution.  A stern and solemn triumph gleamed in the eyes of the soldiers as they trod by the side of the victim; but most of the spectators, especially the females, were melted into tears when they beheld the fine manly form of the prisoner, which seemed better fitted to adorn the royal levee, or a lady’s bower, than for the melancholy fate to which he was about to be consigned.  His head was bare, and his light flaxen hair fell in a rich profusion of locks down his shoulders, but left unshaded his finely-proportioned and sunburnt features.  He wore the uniform of the royal army, and a star on his breast indicated his rank, while he held in his hand a small ivory cross, which he frequently and fervently kissed.  His deportment was firm and contemptuous, and, as he looked on the formal and frequently grotesque figures of his guards, his features even assumed an expression of risibility.  The sight of the gibbet, however, which was raised fifty feet high, seemed to appal him, for he had not been apprized of the ignominious nature of his punishment.  “And is this,” he said, as he scornfully dashed away a tear which had gathered in his eye, “ye rebellious dogs, is this the death to which you doom the heir of Winchester?” A stern and bitter smile played on the lips of his guards, but they remained silent.  “Oh, God!” he continued, “in the field, or on the wave, or on the block, which has reeked so often with the bravest and noblest blood, I could have died smiling; but this—­” His emotion seemed increasing, but with a violent effort he suppressed every outward sign of it; for the visible satisfaction which gleamed on the dark faces around him, at the state of weakness to which they had reduced the proud heart of their foe, was more galling to his soul than the shameful death to which he was devoted.

By the time he reached the place of execution his face had assumed its calm and scornful air, and he sprang upon the scaffold with apparently unconcerned alacrity.  At the same moment a dreadful shriek issued from that part of the surrounding booths in which the family of Chandos sat; and in another instant a female, deadly pale, and with her hair and dress disordered, had darted on to the scaffold, and clasped the prisoner in her arms.

“Walter!” she cried, “Walter! can it be thou? oh! they dare not take thy life; thou bravest, best of men!  Avaunt, ye bloodthirsty brood! ye cannot tear me from him.  Not till my arms grow cold in death I’ll clasp him thus, and defy the world to sever us!”