and we drank it standing.

"King James!"

The governor of the prison bustled in just as the broken glasses shivered
behind us.

"Now gentlemen, if you are quite ready."

Three sledges waited for us in the yard to draw us to the gallows tree.
There was no cowardly feeling, but perhaps a little dilatoriness in
getting into the first sledge. Five minutes might bring a reprieve for any
of us, and to be in the first sledge might mean the difference between
life and death.

"Come, gentlemen! If you please! Let us have no more halting," said the
governor, irritably.

Creagh laughed hardily and vaulted into the sledge. "Egad, you're right!
We'll try a little haltering for a change."

Morgan followed him, and I took the third place.

A rider dismounted at the prison gate.

"Is there any news for me?" asked one poor fellow eagerly.

"Yes, the sheriff has just come and is waiting for you," jeered one of the
guards with brutal frankness.

The poor fellow stiffened at once. "Very well. I am ready."

A heavy rain was falling, but the crowd between the prison and Kennington
Common was immense. At the time of our trials the mob had treated us in
ruffianly fashion, but now we found a respectful silence. The lawyer
Morgan was in an extremely irritable mood. All the way to the Common he
poured into our inattentive ears a tale of woe about how his coffee had
been cold that morning. Over and over again he recited to us the legal
procedure for bringing the matter into the courts with sufficient effect
to have the prison governor removed from his position.

A messenger with an official document was waiting for us at the gallows.
The sheriff tore it open. We had all been bearing ourselves boldly enough
I dare say, but at sight of that paper our lips parched, our throats
choked, and our eyes burned. Some one was to be pardoned or reprieved. But
who? What a moment! How the horror of it lives in one's mind! Leisurely
the sheriff read the document through, then deliberately went over it
again while nine hearts stood still. Creagh found the hardihood at that
moment of intense anxiety to complain of the rope about his neck.

"I wish the gossoon who made this halter was to be hanged in it. 'Slife,
the thing doesn't fit by a mile," he said jauntily.

"Mr. Anthony Creagh pardoned, Mr. Kenneth Montagu reprieved," said the
sheriff without a trace of feeling in his voice.

For an instant the world swam dizzily before me. I closed my ey