he beautiful countenance of Eustace, faded
indeed by severe suffering, yet lighted by the splendor of eyes radiant
with intelligence, while all his features spoke sense and feeling, had
already drawn the attention of the butchers who sat to see him exposed to
the chance of slaughter. With collected intrepidity he stretched his
hand, and steadily drew the lot from the fatal urn. When the contents
were announced, he tore the bandage from his eyes, and, rolling them in
stern defiance of the rebel group, embraced his fellow-victims. A silent
appeal to Heaven succeeded; and then, without one supplicatory address
for mercy, in a manly tone, he inquired what time would be allowed them
to prepare for death. His manner had so far softened their hearts, that a
respite of three hours was granted; and Lord Bellingham offered them the
assistance of one of his own chaplains to direct their devotions.

It would have been an inestimable consolation to Eustace had the worthy
Barton officiated in that capacity; but he was now among the number of
respectable characters who were thrown into prison for presuming to
intercede in the King's behalf. The person who attended Eustace was an
ignorant desperate fanatic, in reality a spy of Cromwell's, whom the
arbitrary will of Lady Bellingham compelled her lord to retain about his
person. Such an assistant could afford no comfort to a condemned man; in
reality he only served to disturb the composure which a long series of
sorrows and sufferings had enabled Eustace externally to assume--I say
externally, for his soul secretly melted at the unusual misfortunes that
had clouded his short existence. He recollected at this trying moment
the precious delights and glorious visions of his boyhood. His mind
dwelt on the delusive opinion of his own powers, which had endangered
his high expectations of renown, the fatal intimacy, and the numerous
errors that changed glory into disgrace; and now, when misfortune had
taught him wisdom, by the cruel sentence of coward rebels he was doomed,
in cold blood, not only to an early, but also to an ignominious grave.
He should never more re-join his father! never behold his plighted
Constantia! Death he would welcome almost with transport, could he but
hear the former pronounce his forgiveness, or the latter vow that she
would cherish his memory. To die unknown, distant from all he loved, be
ignorant of their present state, and they of his miserable doom--such a
combina