ty, and display of what was, perhaps, in part,
the insensibility of extreme age, the "behaviour that was said to have
had neither dignity nor gravity"[262] in it at the trial, had lost the
buffoonish character which characterized it in the House of Lords.

At ten o'clock, a scaffold which had been erected near the block fell
down, and several persons were killed, and many injured; but the
proceedings of the day went on. No reprieve, no thoughts of mercy ever
came to shake the fortitude of the old man. At eleven, the Sheriffs of
London sent to demand the prisoner's body: Lord Lovat retired for a few
moments to pray; then, saying, "I am ready," he left his chamber, and
descended the stairs, complaining as he went, "that they were very
troublesome to him."

He was carried to the outer gate in the Governor's coach, and then
delivered to the Sheriffs, and was by them conveyed to a house, lined
with black, near to the scaffold. He was promised that his head should
not be exposed on the four corners of the scaffold, that practice, in
similar cases, having been abandoned: and that his clothes might be
delivered with his corpse to his friends, as a compensation for which,
to the executioner, he presented ten guineas contained in a purse of
rich texture. He then thanked the Sheriff, and saluted his friends,
saying, "My blood, I hope, will be the last shed upon this occasion."

He then walked towards the scaffold. It was a memorable and a mournful
sight to behold the aged prisoner ascending those steps, supported by
others, thus to close a life which must, at any rate, soon have been
extinguished in a natural decay. As he looked round and saw the
multitudes assembled to witness this disgraceful execution, "God save
us!" he exclaimed; "why should there be such a bustle about taking off
an old grey head, that cannot get up three steps without two men to
support it?" Seeing one of his friends deeply dejected, "Cheer up," he
said, clapping him on the shoulder; "I am not afraid, why should you
be?"

He then gave the executioner his last gift, begging him not to hack and
cut about his shoulders, under pain of his rising to reproach him. He
felt the edge of the axe, and said "he believed it would do;" then his
eyes rested for some moments on the inscription on his coffin. "Simon
Dominus Fraser de Lovat, decollat. April 9, 1747. AEtat 80." He repeated
the line from Horace:--

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori."

Then quoted