The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, Illustrated

Thus exhorted, Ribald and Hairun would have obeyed. But they were prevented by Og and Gog, who began to sec through their brother’s design.

“Leave him alone,” they cried, laughing loudly. “He is about to give his dame a lesson.”

“Is that all?” replied Hairun. “Then he shall have no interruption from me.”

“Barbarian!” cried Dame Placida, appealing to her husband. “Do you mean that I should be devoured! Oh! if ever I do get out, you shall bitterly repent your cruel conduct.”

“You never shall get out, unless you promise to amend your own conduct,” rejoined Magog.

“I will die sooner than make any such promise,” replied Placida.

“Very well, then,” rejoined Magog, “I shall give free passage to Max.”

And he slightly moved his person, while the animal uttered another growl. The giants laughed loudly, and encouraged their brother to proceed.

“Make her promise, or let Max take his course,” they shouted.

“Fear it not,” answered Magog.

“Monster!” shrieked Dame Placida, “you cannot mean this – help! help!”

But no one stirred. And above the roaring of the animals and the angry growling of Max, which Magog had provoked with a sly kick or two, was heard the loud laughter of the gigantic brethren.

“I give you two minutes to consider,” said Magog. “If you do not resolve to amend in that time, I leave you to your fate.’”

And he again goaded Max into a further exhibition of fury. Dame Placida became seriously alarmed, and her proud spirit began to give way.

“I promise,” she uttered faintly.

“Speak up!” bellowed Magog. “I can’t hear you for the noise.”

“I promise,” replied Placida, in a loud and peevish voice. “That won’t do,” rejoined her husband. “Speak as you used to do before I married you, and let the others hear you.”

“Yes – yes,” cried Og, drawing near with the rest, “we must all hear it, that we may be witnesses hereafter. You promise to amend your conduct, and let our brother live peaceably?”

“I do – I do,” replied Placida, in a penitential tone.

“Enough,” replied Magog. And putting out his arm behind to his wife he covered her retreat, and then suddenly turning upon Max, kicked him into the cage, and fastened the door.

Much laughter among the male portion of the company ensued. But Dame Potentia looked rather grave, and privately intimated to her husband her desire, or rather command, that he should go home. As Peter Trusbut took his departure, he whispered to Hairun, “If ever you think of marrying, I advise you to take good care of old Max. I wish I could borrow him for a day or two.”

“You shall have him, and welcome,” returned the bearward, laughing.

“Thank you – thank you,” answered the pantler, dejectedly. “Mine is a hopeless case.”

Dame Placida appeared so much subdued, that at last Magog took compassion upon her, and led her away, observing to the bearward, “For my sake bestow a plentiful supper on Max. He has done me a good turn, and I would fain requite it.”

The rest of the party speedily followed their example, and as Xit took his leave, he remarked to his host, “Nothing but Magog’s desire to terrify his dame prevented me from attacking Max. I am certain I could master him.”

“Say you so?” replied Hairun; “then you may have an opportunity of displaying your prowess before the queen tomorrow.”

“I will certainly avail myself of it,” replied Xit. “Give him a good supper, and he will be in better condition for the fight.”

Early on the following day, Mary arrived at the Tower. She came by water, and was received at the landing-place by Sir Henry Bedingfeld, who conducted her with much ceremony to the palace, where a sumptuous banquet was prepared, at which the knight assisted as chief sewer, presenting each dish to the queen on his bended knee, and placing a silver ewer filled with rosewater, and a napkin, before her between the courses. Mary looked grave and thoughtful, nor could the liveliest sallies of De Noailles, who was one of the guests, call a smile to her lips. Renard, also, was present, and looked more gloomy than usual. The banquet ended, Sir Henry Bedingfeld approached, and laid a parchment before the queen.

“What is this, sir?” she demanded.

“The warrant for the burning of Edward Underhill, the miscreant who attempted your highness’s life,” replied Bedingfeld.

“How! – burned! and I had pardoned him,” exclaimed Mary.

“He has been delivered over by the council to the ecclesiastical authorities, and such is the sentence pronounced against him,” returned the knight.

Mary sighed, and attached her signature to the scroll.

“The hour of execution, and the place?” demanded Bedingfeld.

“To-morrow at midnight, on the Tower-green,” replied Mary.

Soon after this, it being intimated to the queen that all was in readiness at the Lion’s Tower, she arose and proceeded thither, attended by a large retinue of nobles and dames. On the way a momentary interruption occurred, and Simon Renard, who walked a few paces behind her, stepped forward, and whispered in her ear, “I beseech your highness to remain to-night in the Tower. I have somewhat of importance to communicate to you, which can be more safely revealed here than elsewhere.”

Mary bowed assent, and the train set forward. A large assemblage was collected within the area in front of the Lions’ Tower, but a passage was kept dear for the royal party by two lines of halberdiers drawn up on either side. Og and Magog were stationed at the entrance, and reverentially doffed their caps as she passed. Mary graciously acknowledged the salute, and inquired from the elder giant what had become of his diminutive companion.

“He is within, an’ please your majesty,” replied Og, “waiting to signalize himself by a combat with a bear.”

“Indeed!” rejoined Mary smiling. “It is a hardy enterprise for so small a champion. However, large souls oft inhabit little bodies.”

“Your highness says rightly,” observed Og. “But your illustrious father, to whom I have the honour to be indirectly related,” and he inclined his person, “was wont to observe that he had rather have a large frame and small wit, than much wit and a puny person.”

“My father loved to look upon a man,” replied Mary, “and better specimens of the race than thee and thy brethren he could not well meet with.”

“We are much beholden to your highness,” replied Og; “and equally, if not more so, to your royal father. Whatever we can boast of strength and size is derived from him. Our mother – ”

“Some other time,” interrupted Mary, hastily passing on.

“Have I said aught to offend her highness?” asked Og of his brother, as soon as they wero alone.

“I know not,” returned Magog. “But you fetched the colour to her cheeks.”

On reaching the steps, Mary tendered her hand to Sir Henry Bcdingfeld, and he assisted her to ascend. A temporary covering had been placed over the gallery, and the stone parapet was covered with the richest brocade, and velvet edged with gold fringe. The queen’s chair was placed in the centre of the semicircle, and as soon as she was seated, Sir Henry Bcdingfeld stationed himself at her left hand, and waved his staff. The signal was immediately answered by a flourish of trumpets; and a stout, square-built man, with large features, an enormous bushy beard, a short bull throat, having a flat cap on his head, and a stout staff in his hand, issued from a side-door and made a profound obeisance. It was Hairun. His homage rendered, the bearward proceeded to unfasten the door of the central cage, in which a lion of the largest size was confined; and uttering a tremendous roar that shook the whole building, the kingly brute leaped forth. As soon as he had reached the ground, he glared furiously at his keeper, and seemed to meditate a spring. But the latter, who had never removed his eye from him, struck him a severe blow on the nose with his pole, and he instantly turned tail like a beaten hound, and fled howling to the further extremity of the area. Quickly pursuing him, Hairun seized him by the mane, and, in spite of his resistance, compelled him to arise, and bestriding him, rode him backwards and forwards for some time; until the lion, wearying of the performance, suddenly dislodged his rider, and sprang back to his den. This courageous action elicited great applause from the beholders, and the queen loudly expressed her approbation. It was followed by other feats equally daring, in which the bearward proved that he had attained as complete a mastery over the savage tribe as any lion-tamer of modern times. Possessed of prodigious personal strength, he was able to cope with any animal, while his knowledge of the habits of the beast rendered him perfectly fearless as to the result. He unloosed a couple of leopards, goaded them to the utmost pitch of fury, and then defended himself from their combined attack. A tiger proved a more serious opponent. Springing against him, he threw the bearward to the ground, and for a moment it appeared as if his destruction was inevitable. But the brute’s advantage was only momentary. In this unfavourable position, Hairun seized him by the throat, and nearly strangling him with his gripe, pulled him down, and they rolled over each other. During the struggle, Hainin dealt his antagonist a few blows with his fist, which deprived him of his wind, and glad to retreat, he left the bearward master of the field.

Hairun immediately arose, and bowed to the queen, and, excepting a few scratches in the arms, and a gash in the cheek, from which the blood trickled down his beard, appeared none the worse for the contest. So little, indeed, did he care for it, that without tarrying to recover breath, he opened another cage and brought out a large hyæna, over whom he obtained an easy conquest. At last, having finished his performance to the queen’s entire satisfaction, he stepped to a side-door, and introduced Gog and Xit. The latter was arrayed in his gayest habiliments, and strutting into the centre of the area with a mincing step, made a bow to the gallery that drew a smile to the royal lips, and addressing Hairun, called in a loud voice, “Bring forth Maximilian, the imperial bear, that I may combat with him before the queen.”

The bearward proceeded to the cage, and unfastening it, cried, “Come forth, old Max.” And the bear obeyed.

Xit, meanwhile, flung his cap on the ground, and drawing his sword, put himself in a posture of defence.

“Shall I stand by thee?” asked Gog.

“On no account,” replied Xit, in an offended tone, “I want-no assistance. I can vanquish him alone.”

“Spare thy adversary’s life,” observed Hairun, laughingly.

“Fear nothing,” replied Xit, “the brave are ever merciful.”

“True,” laughed Hairun, “I must give a like caution to Max.” And feigning to whisper in the bear’s ear, who was sitting on its hind legs, lolling out its tongue, and looking round in expectation of some eatables, he laughingly withdrew.

Seeing that Max paid no attention to him, Xit drew nearer, and stamping his foot furiously on the ground several times, made a lunge at him, screaming – “Sa-ha! sa-ha! sirrah, – to the combat! – to the combat.”

Still, Max did not notice him, but kept his small red eyes fixed on the gallery, expecting that something would be thrown to him. Enraged at this contemptuous treatment of his defiance, Xit snatched up his cap, flung it in the bear’s face, and finding even this insult prove ineffectual, began to prick him with the point of his sword, crying, “Rouse thee, craven beast! Defend thy life, or I will slay thee forthwith.”

Thus provoked, Max at length condescended to regard his opponent. He uttered a fierce growl, but would not perhaps have retaliated, if Xit had not persevered in his annoyances. Gesticulating and vociferating fiercely, the dwarf made a number of rapid passes, some of which took effect in his antagonist’s hide. All at once, Max made a spring so suddenly, that Xit could not avoid it, struck down the sword, and catching the dwarf in his arms, hugged him to his bosom. All Xit’s courage vanished in a breath. He screamed loudly for help, and kicked and struggled to free himself from the terrible grasp in which he was caught. But Max was not disposed to let him off so cheaply, and the poor dwarfs terror was excessive when he beheld those formidable jaws, and that terrible array of teeth ready to tear him in pieces. It had been all over with him, if Gog, who stood at a little distance, and narrowly watched the fray, thinking he had suffered enough, had not run to his assistance.

Grasping the bear’s throat with his right hand, the giant forced back his head so as to prevent him from using his teeth, while planting his knee against the animal’s side, he tore asunder its gripe with the other hand. Hairun, who was likewise flying to the rescue, seeing how matters stood, halted, and burst into a loud laugh. The next moment, Gog gave Max a buffet on the ears that laid him sprawling on his back, and Xit escaped from his clutches. As soon as the bear regained his legs, he uttered a low angry growl, and scrambled off to his cage. For a few seconds, Xit looked completely crest-fallen. By degrees, however, he recovered his confidence, and bowing to the gallery, said, – “I can scarcely with propriety lay claim to the victory, as if it had been for my friend Gog – ”

“Nay, thou art welcome to my share of it,” interrupted the giant.

“If so,” rejoined Xit, “I must be pronounced the conqueror, for Max has acknowledged himself vanquished by beating a retreat.” As he spoke, the bear growled fiercely, and putting his head out of his cage, seemed disposed to renew the fight – a challenge so alarming to Xit, that he flew to Gog for protection, amid the laughter of the assemblage. Mary then arose, and giving a purse of gold to Sir Henry Bedingfeld, to be bestowed upon the bearward, took her departure for the palace.

As Xit was conversing with his friends, maintaining that he should have vanquished the bear, if Hairun had not most unfairly instructed the beast what to do, and offering to renew the combat on an early occasion, Lawrence Nightgall, accompanied by two halberdiers, entered the court, and approaching him, directed his companions to attach his person. Xit drew his sword, and called upon Gog to defend him.

“What is the meaning of this, master jailor?” demanded the giant, sternly.

“He is arrested by order of the council. There is the warrant,” replied Nightgall.

“Arrested!” exclaimed Xit. “For what?”

“For conspiring against the queen,” replied Nightgall.

“I am innocent of the charge,” replied Xit.

“That remains to be proved,” replied Nightgall.

“I have no fears,” rejoined Xit, recovering his composure, – “but if I must lose my head, like his grace of Northumberland, I will make a better figure on the scaffold. I shall be the first dwarf that ever perished by the axe. Farewell, Gog. Comfort thyself, I am innocent. Lead me away, thou caitiff jailor.”

So saying, he folded his arms upon his breast, and preceded by Nightgall, marched at a slow and dignified pace between his guards.

XX. – HOW EDWARD UNDERHILL WAS BURNT ON TOWER GREEN

It was the policy of the Romish priesthood, at the commencement of Mary’s reign, to win, by whatever means, as many converts as possible to their church. With this view, Gardiner, by the queen’s desire, offered a free pardon to the Hot-Gospeller, provided he would publicly abjure his errors, and embrace the Catholic faith; well knowing, that as general attention had been drawn to his crime, and strong sympathy was excited on account of his doctrines, notwithstanding the heinous nature of his offence, among the Protestant party, that his recantation would be far more available to their cause than his execution. But the enthusiast rejected the offer with disdain. Worn down by suffering, crippled with torture, his spirit still burnt fiercely as ever. And the only answer that could be wrung from him by his tormentors was, that he lamented his design had failed, and rejoiced he should seal his faith with his blood.

On one occasion, he was visited in his cell by Bonner, who desired that the heavy irons with which he was loaded should be removed, and a cup of wine given him. Underhill refused to taste the beverage, but Nightgall and Wolfytt, who were present, forced him to swallow it. A brief conference then took place between the bishop and the prisoner, wherein the former strove earnestly to persuade him to recant. But Underhill was so firm in his purpose, and so violent in his denunciations against his interrogator, that Bonner lost all patience, and cried, “If my words do not affright thee, thou vile traitor and pestilent heretic, yet shall the fire to which I will deliver thee.”

“There thou art mistaken, thou false teacher of a false doctrine,” rejoined Underhill sternly. “The fire may consume my body, but it hath no power over my mind, which shall remain as unscathed as the three children of Israel, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, when they stood in the midst of the fiery furnace. For as the apostle saith – ‘The fire shall try every man’s work what it is. If any man’s work, that he hath builded upon, abide, he shall receive a reward. If any man’s work burn, he shall suffer loss. But he shall be saved himself, nevertheless, yet as it were through fire.’ Even so shall I, despite my manifold transgressions, be saved: while ye, idolatrous priests and prophets of Baal, shall be consumed in everlasting flames.”

“Go to, – go to, thou foolish boaster,” retorted Bonner angrily; “a season will come when thou wilt bitterly lament thou hast turned aside the merciful intentions of thy judges.”

“I have already said that the fire has no terrors for me,” replied Underhill. “When the spirit has once asserted its superiority over the flesh, the body can feel no pain. Upon the rack – in that dreadful engine, which fixes the frame in such a posture that no limb or joint can move – I was at ease. And to prove that I have no sense of suffering, I will myself administer the torture.”

So saying, and raising with some difficulty his stiffened arm, he held his hand over the flame of a lamp that stood upon the table before him, until the veins shrunk and burst, and the sinews cracked. During this dreadful trial, his countenance underwent no change. And if Bonner had not withdrawn the lamp, he would have allowed the limb to be entirely consumed.

“Peradventure, thou wilt believe me now,” he cried triumphantly; “and wilt understand that the Lord will so strengthen me with his holy spirit that I may be ‘one of the number of those blessed, which, enduring to the end, shall reap a heavenly inheritance.’”

“Take him away,” replied Bonner. “His blood be upon his own head. He is so blinded and besotted, that he does not perceive that his death will lead to damnation.”

“No, verily,” rejoined Underhill, exultingly; “for as Saint Paul saith, There is no damnation to them that are in Christ Jesus, which walk not after the flesh, but after the spirit. Death, where is thy sting? Hell, where is thy victory?”

“Hence with the blasphemer,” roared Bonner; “and spare him no torments, for he deserves the severest ye can inflict.”

Upon this, Underhill was removed, and the bishop’s injunctions in respect to the torture literally fulfilled.

Brought to trial for the attempt upon the queen’s life, he was found guilty, and received the royal pardon. Nothing could be elicited as to his having any associates or instigators to his crime. And the only matter that implicated another was the prayer for the restoration of Jane, written in a leaf of the bible found upon his person at the time of his seizure. But though he was pardoned by Mary, he did not escape. He was claimed as a heretic by Bonner; examined before the ecclesiastical commissioners; and adjudged to the stake. The warrant for his execution was signed, as above related, by the queen.

On the night before this terrible sentence was carried into effect, he was robed in a loose dress of flame-coloured taffeta, and conveyed through the secret passages to Saint John’s Chapel in the White Tower, which was brilliantly illuminated, and filled with a large assemblage. As he entered the sacred structure, a priest advanced with holy water, but he turned aside with a scornful look. Another, more officious, placed a consecrated wafer to his lips, but he spat it out; while a third forced a couple of tapers into his hands, which he was compelled to carry, in this way, he was led along the aisle by his guard, through the crowd of spectators who divided as he moved towards the altar, before which, as on the occasion of the Duke of Northumberland’s reconciliation, Gardiner was seated upon the faldstool, with the mitre on his head. Priests and choristers were arranged on either side in their full habits. The aspect of the chancellor-bishop was stern and menacing, but the miserable enthusiast did not quail before it. On the contrary, he seemed inspired with new strength; and though he had with difficulty dragged his crippled limbs along the dark passages, he now stood firm and erect. His limbs were wasted, his cheeks hollow, his eyes deep sunken in their sockets, but flashing with vivid lustre. At a gesture from Gardiner, Nightgall and Wolfytt, who attended him, forced him upon his knees.

Edward Underhill, demanded the bishop, in a stern voice, “for the last time, I ask thee dost thou persist in thy impious and damnable heresies?”

“I persist in my adherence to the Protestant faith, by which alone I can be saved,” replied Underhill, firmly. “I deserve and desire death for having raised my hand against the queens life. But as her highness has been graciously pleased to extend her mercy towards me, if I suffer death it will be in the cause of the gospel. And I take all here present to witness that I am right willing to do so, certain that I shall obtain by such means the crown of everlasting life. I would suffer a thousand deaths – yea all the rackings, torments, crucifyings, and other persecutions endured by the martyrs of old, rather than deny Christ and his gospel, or defile my faith and conscience with the false worship of the Romish religion.”

“Then perish in thy sins, unbeliever,” replied Gardiner sternly.

And he arose, and taking off his mitre, the whole assemblage knelt down, while the terrible denunciation of the Catholic church against a heretic was solemnly pronounced. This done, mass was performed, hymns were chanted, and the prisoner was conducted to his cell.

The brief remainder of his life was passed by Underhill in deep but silent devotion; for his jailors, who never left him, would not suffer him to pray aloud, or even to kneel; and strove, though vainly, to distract him, by singing ribald songs, plucking his beard and garments, and offering other interruptions.

The place appointed as the scene of his last earthly suffering was a square patch of ground, marked by a border of white flint stones, then, and even now, totally destitute of herbage, in front of Saint Peter’s Chapel on the Green, where the scaffold for those executed within the Tower was ordinarily erected, and where Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard were beheaded.

On this spot a strong stake was driven deeply into the ground, and at a little distance from it was piled a large stack of fagots. An iron ring was fixed to the centre of the stake, and to the ring was attached a broad iron girdle, destined to encircle the body of the victim.

As night set in, a large band of halberdiers marched into the green, and stationed themselves round the stake. Long before this, sombre groups had gathered together at various points, and eyed the proceedings in moody silence. None of the curiosity – none of the excitement ordinarily manifested upon such occasions – was now exhibited. Underhills crime had checked the strong tide of sympathy which would otherwise have run in his favour. Still, as he had been pardoned by the queen, and was condemned for his religious opinions only, deep commiseration was felt for him. It was not, however, for him that the assemblage looked grave, but for themselves. Most of them were of the Reformed faith, and they argued – and with reason, – that this was only the commencement of a season of trouble; and that the next victim might be one of their own family. With such sentiments, it is not to be wondered at, that they looked on sternly and suspiciously, and with the strongest disposition – though it was not manifested, otherwise than by looks – to interrupt the proceedings. As it grew dark, and faces could no longer be discerned, loud murmurings arose, and it was deemed expedient to double the guard, and to place in custody some of the most clamorous. By this means, all disposition to tumult was checked, and profound silence ensued. Meanwhile, numbers continued to flock thither, until, long before the appointed hour arrived, the whole area from the lieutenant’s lodgings to Saint Peters Chapel was densely thronged.

As the bell ceased tolling the hour of midnight, a lugubrious procession slowly issued from beneath the gloomy archway of the Coalharbour Gate. First came four yeomen of the guard walking two and two, and bearing banners of black silk, displaying large white crosses. Then twelve deacons in the same order, in robes of black silk and flat caps, each carrying a long lighted wax taper. Then a priest’s assistant, in a white surplice, with a red cross in front, bareheaded, and swinging a large bell heavily to and fro. Then two young priests, likewise bareheaded, and in white surplices, each holding a lighted taper in a massive silver candlestick. Then an old priest with the mitre. Then two chantry-priests in their robes singing the Miserere. Then four Carmelite monks, each with a large rosary hanging from his wrist, supporting a richly gilt square canopy, decorated at each corner with a sculptured cross, beneath which walked Bonner, in his scarlet chimere and white rochet. Then came Feckenham and other prelates, followed by two more chantry-priests singing the same doleful hymn as their predecessors. Then came a long train of halberdiers. Then the prisoner, clothed in sackcloth and bare-footed, walking between two friars of the lowly order of Saint Francis, who besought him, in piteous tones, to repent ere it was too late. And lastly, the rear was brought up by a company of archers of the queen’s body guard.

As soon as the procession had formed in the order it arrived round the place of execution, the prisoner was brought forward by the two friars, who for the last time earnestly exhorted him to recant, and save his soul alive. But he pushed them from him, saying, “Get hence ye popish wolves! ye raveners of Christ’s faithful flock! Back to the idolatrous Antichrist of Rome who sent ye hither. I will have none of your detestable doctrines. Get hence, I say, and trouble me no more.”

When the friars drew back, he would have addressed the assemblage. But a halberdier, by Bonner’s command, thrust a pike into his mouth and silenced him. A wild and uncouth figure, with strong but clumsily-formed limbs, coarse repulsive features, lighted up by a savage smile, now stepped forward. It was Wolfytt, the sworn tormentor. He was attired in a jerkin and hose of tawny leather. His arms and chest were bare, and covered with a thick pile of red hair. His ragged locks and beard, of the same disgusting colour, added to his hideous and revolting appearance. He was armed with a long iron pitchfork, and had a large hammer and a pair of pincers stuck in his girdle. Behind him came Mauger and Nightgall.

A deep and awful silence now prevailed throughout the concourse. Not a breath was drawn, and every eye was bent upon the victim. He was seized and stripped by Mauger and Wolfytt, the latter of whom dragged him to the stake, which the poor zealot reverently kissed as he reached it, placed the iron girdle round his waist, and riveted it to the post. In this position, Underhill cried with a loud voice, “God preserve Queen Jane! and speedily restore her to the throne, that she may deliver this unhappy realm from the popish idolaters who would utterly subvert it.”

Several voices cried “Amen!” and Wolfytt, who was nailing the girdle at the time, commanded him to keep silence, and enforced the order by striking him a severe blow on the temples with the hammer.

“You might have spared me that, friend,” observed Underhill, meekly. And he then added, in a lower tone, “Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am weak! O Lord heal me, for all my bones are vexed!”

While the fagots were heaped around him by Mauger and Nightgall, he continued to pray fervently; and when all was made ready, he cried, “Dear Father, I beseech thee to give once more to this realm the blessing of thy word, with godly peace. Purge and purify me by this fire in Christ’s death and passion through thy spirit, that I may be an acceptable burnt-offering in thy sight. Farewell, dear friends. Pray for me, and pray with me.”

As he spoke, Nightgall seized a torch and applied it to the fagots. His example was imitated by Mauger and Wolfytt, and the pile was speedily kindled. The dry wood crackled, and the smoke rose in thick volumes. the flames then burst forth, and burning fast and fiercely, cast a lurid light upon the countenances of the spectators, upon the windows of Saint Peter’s chapel, and upon the grey walls of the White Tower. As yet, the fire had not reached the victim; the wind blowing strongly from the west, carried it aside. But in a few seconds it gained sufficient ascendancy, and his sufferings commenced. For a short space, he endured them without a groan. But as the flames mounted, notwithstanding all his efforts, the sharpness of the torment overcame him. Placing his hands behind his neck, he made desperate attempts to draw himself further up the stake, out of the reach of the devouring element. But the iron girdle effectually restrained him. He then lost all command of himself; and his eyes starting from their sockets – his convulsed features – his erected hair, and writhing frame – proclaimed the extremity of his agony. He sought relief by adding to his own torture. Crossing his hands upon his breast, and grasping either shoulder, he plunged his nails deeply into the flesh. It was a horrible sight, and a shuddering groan burst from the assemblage. Fresh fagots were added by Nightgall and his companions, who moved around the pyre like fiends engaged in some impious rite. The flames again arose brightly and fiercely. By this time, the lower limbs were entirely consumed; and throwing back his head, and uttering a loud and lamentable yell which was heard all over the fortress, the wretched victim gave up the ghost. A deep and mournful silence succeeded this fearful cry. It found an heco in every breast.