as
you!'

She went away, and climbed the path above, to assure herself that she
would be able to find the wicket next day. Its outline was soon visible
to her--a narrow opening in the outer wall of the prison precincts. The
steep was so great that, having reached the wicket, she stopped a moment
to breathe; and, looking back upon the water-side cot, saw the hangman
again ascending his outdoor staircase. He entered the loft or chamber to
which it led, and in a few minutes extinguished his light.

The town clock struck ten, and she returned to the White Hart as she had
come.

CHAPTER IX--A RENCOUNTER

It was one o'clock on Saturday. Gertrude Lodge, having been admitted to
the jail as above described, was sitting in a waiting-room within the
second gate, which stood under a classic archway of ashlar, then
comparatively modern, and bearing the inscription, 'COVNTY JAIL: 1793.'
This had been the facade she saw from the heath the day before. Near at
hand was a passage to the roof on which the gallows stood.

The town was thronged, and the market suspended; but Gertrude had seen
scarcely a soul. Having kept her room till the hour of the appointment,
she had proceeded to the spot by a way which avoided the open space below
the cliff where the spectators had gathered; but she could, even now,
hear the multitudinous babble of their voices, out of which rose at
intervals the hoarse croak of a single voice uttering the words, 'Last
dying speech and confession!' There had been no reprieve, and the
execution was over; but the crowd still waited to see the body taken
down.

Soon the persistent girl heard a trampling overhead, then a hand beckoned
to her, and, following directions, she went out and crossed the inner
paved court beyond the gatehouse, her knees trembling so that she could
scarcely walk. One of her arms was out of its sleeve, and only covered
by her shawl.

On the spot at which she had now arrived were two trestles, and before
she could think of their purpose she heard heavy feet descending stairs
somewhere at her back. Turn her head she would not, or could not, and,
rigid in this position, she was conscious of a rough coffin passing her
shoulder, borne by four men. It was open, and in it lay the body of a
young man, wearing the smockfrock of a rustic, and fustian breeches. The
corpse had been thrown into the coffin so hastily that the skirt of the
smockfrock was hanging over. The burden was te