University of Virginia Library

11. XI.
THE EXECUTION.

I hastened to the front of the palace, where rose,
grim and threatening, the scaffold with its block, upon
which the execution was to take place.

A frightful dream, rather than a series of real events,
seemed playing before me, and I could scarce collect
my thoughts or reason upon the situation. A great
crowd blocked up the street, of mingled soldiery and
civilians. Round hats and gleaming arms were mixed
together in enormous confusion; and through the
mighty multitude awaiting the terrible scene ran a low,
vague murmur, like the sound of waves before they are
lashed to fury in a tempest.

I staggered on, rather than walked, and almost by
main force made a path through the mass towards
the scaffold. More than once I came near becoming
engaged in a personal collision from my urgency. A
soldier whom I had thrust aside aimed a savage blow
at me with his halberd, and a burly ruffian into whose
ribs I struck my elbow overwhelmed me with blasphemous
curses. I disregarded all, however, and, thanks
to my persistence, reached a position near the scaffold.

The crowd was agitated, and many faces were pale.

“Poor king!” said a woman,—for there were many
in the mass;—“see! they have driven iron staples in
the scaffold, to chain him down if he resists!”

“Poor heart!” came in response; but with these
pitying exclamations mingled hoarse shouts of “Execution!
execution!”

I was now in the immediate vicinity of the scaffold.
My head was turning, wellnigh, at thought of the
coming spectacle; but in the midst of this confused
dream, as 'twere, rose clear and vivid the thought,
“Who will act as executioner?” Gregory Brandon,
the official headsman, had fled from London, and would
not strike off the king's head if they found him. Who
would? To volunteer was too infamous for the most
infamous. It might be that no Englishman could be
found who would act as headsman!

A fearful commentary upon this desperate hope was
speedily presented. The crowd surged to and fro; a
path was made through the compact mass; and through
this opening advanced two figures, from whom the most
brutal shrank back.

The figures were clad in a close woolen garb, then

peculiar to butchers. One wore a long gray peruke,
beard, and black mask; the other a black peruke and
mask, and a black hat whose heavy flap was caught up
in front. Something peculiar in the walk of this latter
proved that it was Gregory Brandon. But who was the
personage in the gray beard?

The men mounted the scaffold in the midst of loud
cries. Then all became silent. Through a window in
front of the palace, the king walked straight to the scaffold,
accompanied only by Bishop Juxon and Herbert.
As he reached it, I saw the figure taken for that of
Gregory Brandon kneel to him. I pushed nearer, and
came within hearing just as the king turned quickly, seeing
some one touch the headman's axe, exclaiming,—

“Have a care of the axe! If the edge is spoiled,
'twill be the worse for me!”

Meanwhile the headsman had remained upon his
knees. He now said, in a muffled voice,—the voice
of Gregory Brandon,—

“I entreat your majesty's forgiveness for performing
this terrible duty.”

The king shook his head.

“No,” he said: “I forgive no subject of mine who
comes deliberately to shed my blood!”

The headsman groaned, and I saw a shudder pass
through his frame.[1] He rose, and, with head bowed
upon his breast, awaited.

The king had turned away, and uttered a few words
to Bishop Juxon. He then raised the long locks of
gray hair flowing upon his neck, and said to the
headsman,—

“Is any of my hair in the way?”

“I beg your majesty to push it more under your
cap,” came in muffled tones from the black mask,
whose wearer bowed low.

In observing this ceremony, Bishop Juxon assisted
his majesty.

“There is but one stage more, your majesty,” faltered
the good bishop, “which, though turbulent and trouble-some,
is yet a short one. Consider: it will carry you
a great way,—even from earth to heaven.”

The king inclined his head.

“I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown,”
he said, “where no disturbance can take place.”

As he uttered these calm words, the king threw off
his cloak, and gave his George to the bishop, with the
single word, “Remember!” He then removed his
coat, resumed the cloak, and, pointing to the block,
said to the headsman,—

“Place it so that it will not shake.”

“It is firm,” came from the headsman, who shuddered
so that he could scarce hold the axe.

“I shall say a short prayer,” the king said, as calmly
as before. “When I hold out my hand, thus,—strike.”

The king stood for a moment with closed eyes, his
lips moving in prayer. Then he raised his eyes to
heaven, knelt, and placed his head upon the block;
and the headsman, with a single blow, severed his head
from his body.

As the head rolled upon the scaffold, and the body
recoiled from the block, a cry burst from the vast
crowd,—shouts and weeping mingled.

Above the mass, thus agitated and moving to and
fro, rose the scaffold, where the gray headsman, the
associate of the wretched Brandon, held up the dripping
head of the king, crying,—

“This is the head of a traitor!”