f his death, that made it so terrible. And he
sighed, and prayed to God to grant him patience, and fell into a deep
tranquil sleep, from which he did not awake until the hour of his
departure was at hand.

CHAPTER XXIV.

On life's wide sea, when tempests gathering dark
Pour the fierce billow on the shatter'd bark,
The surge may break, the warring winds may rave,
'Tis God controls the vengeance of the wave;
And those who trust in his Almighty arm
No storm shall vex, nor hurricane alarm;
He is their stay when earthly hope is lost,
The light and anchor of the tempest-tost!--S.M.

At an early hour next morning every avenue and street leading to the
place of execution was thronged with human beings, all anxious to behold
an erring fellow-creature suffer the punishment due to the enormous
crime of which he had been found guilty. The rush of the gathering
multitude was like the roaring of a troubled sea, when the waters foam
and chafe, and find no rest for their tumultuous heavings. Intense
curiosity was depicted on every countenance, and each man strained his
neck eagerly forward to catch a glance of the monster who had murdered
his own father.

And there was one among that mass of living heads the most anxious, the
most eager of all. This was Godfrey Hurdlestone, who could not believe
his victim sure until he saw him die.

"Why, Squire," whispered a voice near him, "I did not expect to see you
here. Are you not satisfied that he is condemned?"

"No, Bill," responded the murderer. "I must see him die. Then, and not
till then, shall I believe myself secure."

"What has become of Mary?" again whispered his companion in guilt.

Godfrey's hardened face became livid. "She was lying speechless, given
over by the physicians, at Captain Whitmore's, three days ago. Curse
her! I have no doubt that she meant to betray us."

"I wish I had throttled her the night she described the scene of the
murder! But mum; here comes the prisoner. By Jove! how well he looks!
how bravely he bears up against his fate! Does not the sight of that
proud pale face make you feel rather queerish?"

"Away with your scruples; his death makes rich men of us."

The prisoner ascended the platform, supported by Frederic Wildegrave and
the good chaplain. A breathless pause succeeded, and he became the
central point to which all eyes were directed. His hat was off, and the
expression of his face was calm and resi