A chain of gold—to die easily:
And her costly present she did not rue,
For I touched her head, and away it flew!
Whir—whir—whir—whir!
“A brave song, and well sung,” cried Wolfytt, approvingly. “Have you any
more of it?”
“No,” replied Mauger, significantly. “I shall make another verse
to-morrow. My axe is now as sharp as a razor,” he added, feeling its
edge. “Suppose we go to the scaffold? It must be up by this time.”,
“With all my heart,” replied Sorrocold, whose superstitious curiosity
was fully awakened.
Shouldering the heavy block with the greatest ease, Mauger directed
Wolfytt to bring a bundle of straw from a heap in the corner, and
extinguishing the lamp, set forth. It was a sharp, frosty night, and
the hard ground rang beneath their footsteps. There was no moon, but
the stars twinkled brightly down, revealing every object with sufficient
distinctness. As they passed Saint Thomas’s Tower, Wolfytt laughingly
pointed out Bret’s head stuck upon a spike on the roof, and
observed,—“That poor fellow made Xit a knight.”
0511
0513
On reaching the Green, they found Manger’s conjecture right—the scaffold
was nearly finished. Two carpenters were at work upon it, nailing the
planks to the posts, and the noise of their hammers resounded in sharp
echoes from the surrounding habitations. Hurrying forward, Mauger
ascended the steps, which were placed on the north, opposite Saint
Peter’s chapel, and deposited his burthen on the platform. He was
followed more leisurely by Sorrocold; and Wolfytt, throwing the straw
upon the ground, scrambled after them as well as he could.
“If I had thought it was so sold, I would have taken another pull at the
stone bottle,” he said, rubbing his hands.
“Warm yourself by helping the carpenter,” replied Sorrocold gravely. “It
will do you more good.”
Wolfytt laughed, and dropping on his knees, grasped the block with both
hands, and placed his neck in the hollowed space.
“Shall I try whether I can take your head off?” demanded Mauger,
feigning to draw his dagger.
Apprehensive that the jest might be carried a little too far, Wolfytt
got up, and imitated, as well as his drunken condition would allow,
the actions of a person addressing the multitude and preparing for
execution. In bowing to receive the blessing of the priest, he missed
his footing a second time, and rolled off the scaffold. He did not
attempt to ascend again, but supported himself against one of the posts
near the carpenters. Mauger and Sorrocold took no notice of him, but
began to converse in an under tone about the apparition. In spite of
himself, the executioner could not repress a feeling of dread, and the
chirurgeon half-repented his curiosity.
After a while, neither spoke, and Sorrocold’s teeth chattered, partly
with cold, partly with terror. Nothing broke the deathlike silence
around, except the noise of the hammer, and ever and anon, a sullen and
ominous roar proceeding from the direction of the Lions’ Tower.
“Do you think it will appear?” inquired Sorrocold, whose blood ran cold
at the latter awful sounds.
“I know not,” replied Mauger—“All! there—there it is.” And he pointed
towards the church porch, from which a figure, robed in white, but
unsubstantial almost as the mist, suddenly issued. It glided noiselessly
along, and without turning its face towards the beholders. No one saw
it except Mauger and Sorrocold, who followed its course with their
eyes. The carpenters continued their work, and Wolfytt stared at his
companions in stupid and inebriate wonderment. After making the complete
circuit of the scaffold, the figure entered the church porch and
disappeared.
“What think you of it?” demanded Mauger, as soon as he could find
utterance.
“It is marvellous and incomprehensible, and if I had not seen it with my
own eyes, I could not have believed it,” replied the churgeon. “It must
be the shade of Anne Boleyn, she is buried in that chapel.”
“You are right,” replied the executioner. “It is her spirit, there will
be no further respite. Jane will die to-morrow.”