The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned.  It was a dull, foggy day, and the atmosphere was so thick and heavy, that, at eight o’clock, the curious who arrived near the prison could scarcely discern the tower of St. Sepulchre’s church.

By and by the tramp of horses’ feet was heard slowly ascending Snow Hill, and presently a troop of grenadier guards rode into the area facing Newgate.  These were presently joined by a regiment of foot.  A large body of the constables of Westminster next made their appearance, the chief of whom entered the Lodge, where they were speedily joined by the civic authorities.  At nine o’clock, the sheriffs arrived, followed by their officers and javelin-men.

Meantime, the Stone Hall was crowded by all the inmates of the jail, debtors, felons, turnkeys, and officers who could obtain permission to witness the ceremony of the prisoner’s irons being struck off.  Caliban, who, through the interest of Mr. Ireton, was appointed to the office, stood with a hammer in one hand, and a punch in the other, near the great stone block, ready to fulfil his duty.  Close behind him stood the tall gaunt figure of Marvel, with his large bony hands, his scraggy neck, and ill-favoured countenance.  Next to the executioner stood his wife—­the former Mrs. Spurling.  Mrs. Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress.  But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief.

At this moment, the bell of Newgate began to toll, and was answered by another bell from St. Sepulchre’s.  The great door of the Stone Hall was thrown open, and the sheriffs, preceded by the javelin-men, entered the room.  They were followed by Jonathan, who carried a stout stick under his arm, and planted himself near the stone.  Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout.

Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room.  Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour dignified.  His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear.  On the contrary, it was impossible to look at him without perceiving that his resolution was unshaken.

Advancing with a slow firm step to the stone-block he placed his left foot upon it, drew himself up to his full height, and fixed a look so stern upon Jonathan, that the thief-taker quailed before it.

The black, meantime, began to ply his hammer, and speedily unriveted the chains.  The first stroke appeared to arouse all the vindictive passions of Jonathan.  Fixing a ferocious and exulting look upon Jack Sheppard, he exclaimed.

“At length, my vengeance is complete.”

“Wretch!” cried Jack, raising his hand in a menacing manner, “your triumph will be short-lived.  Before a year has expired, you will share the same fate.”