places. There
was one young woman who had some difficulty in climbing over a
battlement, and the mob hailed her failure with roars of mirth. But she
persevered, though there was a high wind blowing, and then called loudly
for her male attendant to follow her. He obeyed dutifully, and they both
seated themselves upon a chimney-top,--a picture of love rewarded,--and
waited for the show. The moments, as marked upon St. Sepulchre's clock,
went grudgingly, as if the index-hands were unwilling to shoulder the
responsibility of what was to come. Meantime, the police had their hands
full; for some merry urchins were darting between their legs, and it was
dangerous to keep one's hat on his head, for it hazarded plucking off
and shying here and there. At the chamber-windows aforesaid, crowded the
tipsy occupants, men and women, red-eyed with drinking, and leering
stupidly upon the surging heads below. Some asked if Calcraft did the
"job," and others volunteered sketches of Calcraft's life. One man
boasted that he had taken a pot of beer with him, and another added that
the hangman's children and his own went to school together. "He
pockets," said the man, "two-pun ten for every one he drops, besides his
travelling expenses, and he has put away three hundred and twenty folks.
He is a clever fellow, is Calcraft, and he is going to retire soon."

So the hours passed; the great clock-hands journeyed onward; all eyes
watched them attentively; suddenly the deep bells struck a terrible
one--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight, and the bells of the
neighborhood answered, some hoarsely, others musically, others faintly,
as if ashamed.

Before the tones had died away, three persons appeared upon the
scaffold,--a woman, pinioned and wearing a long, sharp, snowy, shrowdy,
death-cap; a man in loose black robes with a white neckhandkerchief, and
a burly, surly fellow, in black cloth, bareheaded, and having a curling
jetty beard around his heavy jaws. It is but a moment, that, standing
on tiptoe, you catch this scene. The priest stretches his hand toward
the people, and says some unintelligible words; those of the mob curse
each other, and some scream out that they are dying in the press. Then
the scaffold is clear; the woman stands alone,--God forgive her!--and
when you look again, a bundle of old clothes, tipped with a sugar-loaf,
is all that is visible, and the gallows-cord is very straight and tight.
For the last chapter, consult the