The pillory was erected at Charing Cross.  A numerous escort was required to protect him from the fury of the mob, who would otherwise have torn him in pieces; but, though shielded in some degree from their active vengeance, he could not shut his ears to their yells and execrations.  Infuriated thousands were collected in the open space around the pillory, eager to glut their eyes upon the savage spectacle; and the shout they set up on his appearance was so terrific, that even the prisoner, undaunted as he had hitherto shown himself, was shaken by it, and lost his firmness, though he recovered it in some degree as he mounted the huge wooden machine, conspicuous at a distance above the heads of the raging multitude.  On the boards on which he had to stand, there was another person besides the tormentor,—­and the sight of him evidently occasioned the criminal great disquietude.  This person was attired in black, with a broad-leaved hat pulled down over his brows.

“What doth this fellow here?” demanded Mompesson.  “You do not need an assistant.”

“I know not that,” replied the tormentor,—­a big, brawny fellow, habited in a leathern jerkin, with his arms bared to the shoulder,—­taking up his hammer and selecting a couple of sharp-pointed nails; “but in any case he has an order from the Council of the Star-Chamber to stand here.  And now, prisoner,” he continued roughly and authoritatively,—­“place your head in this hole, and your hands here.”

Since resistance would have been vain, Mompesson did as he was bidden.  A heavy beam descended over his neck and wrists, and fastened him down immovably; while, amid the exulting shouts of the spectators, his ears were nailed to the wood.  During one entire hour the ponderous machine slowly revolved, so as to exhibit him to all the assemblage; and at the end of that time the yet more barbarous part of the sentence, for which the ferocious mob had been impatiently waiting, was carried out.  The keen knife and the branding-iron were called into play, and in the bleeding and mutilated object before them, now stamped with indelible infamy, none could have recognised the once haughty and handsome Sir Giles Mompesson.

A third person, we have said, stood upon the pillory.  He took no part in aiding the tormentor in his task; but he watched all that was done with atrocious satisfaction.  Not a groan—­not the quivering of a muscle escaped him.  He felt the edge of the knife to make sure it was sharp enough for the purpose, and saw that the iron was sufficiently heated to burn the characters of shame deeply in.  When all was accomplished, he seized Mompesson’s arm, and, in a voice that seemed scarcely human, cried,—­“Now, I have paid thee back in part for the injuries thou hast done me.  Thou wilt never mock me more!”

“In part!” groaned Mompesson.  “Is not thy vengeance fully satiated?  What more wouldst thou have?”

“What more?” echoed the other, with the laugh of a demon,—­“for every day of anguish thou gavest my brother in his dungeon in the Fleet I would have a month—­a year, I would not have thee perish too soon, and therefore thou shalt be better cared for than he was.  But thou shalt never escape—­never! and at the last I will be by thy side.”