CHAPTER XXIV.

    On life’s wide sea, when tempests gathering dark
    Pour the fierce billow on the shatter’d bark,
    The surge may break, the warring winds may rave,
    ’Tis God controls the vengeance of the wave;
    And those who trust in his Almighty arm
    No storm shall vex, nor hurricane alarm;
    He is their stay when earthly hope is lost,
    The light and anchor of the tempest-tost!—­S.M.

At an early hour next morning every avenue and street leading to the place of execution was thronged with human beings, all anxious to behold an erring fellow-creature suffer the punishment due to the enormous crime of which he had been found guilty.  The rush of the gathering multitude was like the roaring of a troubled sea, when the waters foam and chafe, and find no rest for their tumultuous heavings.  Intense curiosity was depicted on every countenance, and each man strained his neck eagerly forward to catch a glance of the monster who had murdered his own father.

And there was one among that mass of living heads the most anxious, the most eager of all.  This was Godfrey Hurdlestone, who could not believe his victim sure until he saw him die.

“Why, Squire,” whispered a voice near him, “I did not expect to see you here.  Are you not satisfied that he is condemned?”

“No, Bill,” responded the murderer.  “I must see him die.  Then, and not till then, shall I believe myself secure.”

“What has become of Mary?” again whispered his companion in guilt.

Godfrey’s hardened face became livid.  “She was lying speechless, given over by the physicians, at Captain Whitmore’s, three days ago.  Curse her!  I have no doubt that she meant to betray us.”

“I wish I had throttled her the night she described the scene of the murder!  But mum; here comes the prisoner.  By Jove! how well he looks! how bravely he bears up against his fate!  Does not the sight of that proud pale face make you feel rather queerish?”

“Away with your scruples; his death makes rich men of us.”

The prisoner ascended the platform, supported by Frederic Wildegrave and the good chaplain.  A breathless pause succeeded, and he became the central point to which all eyes were directed.  His hat was off, and the expression of his face was calm and resigned; the dignity of conscious innocence was there.  He turned his fine dark eyes with a pitying glance on the upturned faces of the gazing crowd; the hisses and groans with which they had greeted his first appearance were hushed; a death-like stillness fell upon that vast assemblage, and many a rugged cheek was moistened with tears of genuine compassion.

“Hark, he is about to speak!  Is it to confess his crime?”