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

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

　　Soon the persistent girl heard a trampling overhead, then a handbeckoned to her, and, following directions, she went out and crossedthe inner paved court beyond the gatehouse, her knees trembling sothat she could scarcely walk. One of her arms was out of itssleeve, and only covered by her shawl.

　　On the spot at which she had now arrived were two trestles, andbefore she could think of their purpose she heard heavy feetdescending stairs somewhere at her back. Turn her head she wouldnot, or could not, and, rigid in this position, she was conscious ofa rough coffin passing her shoulder, borne by four men. It wasopen, and in it lay the body of a young man, wearing the smockfrockof a rustic, and fustian breeches. The corpse had been thrown intothe coffin so hastily that the skirt of the smockfrock was hangingover. The burden was temporarily deposited on the trestles.

　　By this time the young woman's state was such that a gray mistseemed to float before her eyes, on account of which, and the veilshe wore, she could scarcely discern anything: it was as though shehad nearly died, but was held up by a sort of galvanism.

　　'Now!' said a voice close at hand, and she was just conscious thatthe word had been addressed to her.

　　By a last strenuous effort she advanced, at the same time hearingpersons approaching behind her. She bared her poor curst arm; andDavies, uncovering the face of the corpse, took Gertrude's hand, andheld it so that her arm lay across the dead man's neck, upon a linethe colour of an unripe blackberry, which surrounded it.

　　Gertrude shrieked: 'the turn o' the blood,' predicted by theconjuror, had taken place. But at that moment a second shriek rentthe air of the enclosure: it was not Gertrude's, and its effectupon her was to make her start round.

　　Immediately behind her stood Rhoda Brook, her face drawn, and hereyes red with weeping. Behind Rhoda stood Gertrude's own husband;his countenance lined, his eyes dim, but without a tear.

　　'D-n you! what are you doing here?' he said hoarsely.

　　'Hussy--............