There was nothing, they said, in that paper about resistance; nor, though Monmouth, quite worn-out with their importunities, said to one of them, in the most affecting manner, “I am to die—­pray my lord—­I refer to my paper,” would those men think it consistent with their duty to desist.  There were only a few words they desired on one point.  The substance of these applications on the one hand, and answers on the other, was repeated over and over again, in a manner that could not be believed, if the facts were not attested by the signatures of the persons principally concerned.  If the duke, in declaring his sorrow for what had passed, used the word invasion, “Give it the true name,” said they, “and call it rebellion.”  “What name you please,” replied the mild-tempered Monmouth.  He was sure he was going to everlasting happiness, and considered the serenity of his mind in his present circumstances as a certain earnest of the favour of his Creator.  His repentance, he said, must be true, for he had no fear of dying; he should die like a lamb.  “Much may come from natural courage,” was the unfeeling and stupid reply of one of the assistants.  Monmouth, with that modesty inseparable from true bravery, denied that he was in general less fearful than other men, maintaining that his present courage was owing to his consciousness that God had forgiven him his past transgressions, of all which generally he repented with all his soul.

At last the reverend assistants consented to join with him in prayer, but no sooner were they risen from their kneeling posture than they returned to their charge.  Not satisfied with what had passed, they exhorted him to a true and thorough repentance.  Would he not pray for the king, and send a dutiful message to his majesty to recommend the duchess and his children?  “As you please,” was the reply; “I pray for him and for all men.”  He now spoke to the executioner, desiring that he might have no cap over his eyes, and began undressing.  One would have thought that in this last sad ceremony, the poor prisoner might have been unmolested, and that the divines would have been satisfied that prayer was the only part of their function for which their duty now called upon them.  They judged differently, and one of them had the fortitude to request the duke, even in this stage of the business, that he would address himself to the soldiers then present, to tell them he stood a sad example of rebellion, and entreat the people to be loyal and obedient to the king.  “I have said I will make no speeches,” repeated Monmouth, in a tone more peremptory than he had before been provoked to; “I will make no speeches.  I come to die.”  “My lord, ten words will be enough,” said the persevering divine; to which the duke made no answer, but turning to the executioner, expressed a hope that he would do his work better now than in the case of Lord Russell.  He then felt the axe, which he apprehended was not sharp enough, but being assured that it was of proper sharpness and weight, he laid down his head.  In the meantime many fervent ejaculations were used by the reverend assistants, who, it must be observed, even in these moments of horror, showed themselves not unmindful of the points upon which they had been disputing, praying God to accept his imperfect and general repentance.