himself to speak, so great
was his horror of the crime that was to be committed; so he backed his
horse against the wall, and waited over an hour in silence, scarcely
hearing the murmurs of impatience that rolled round the great crowd from
time to time, absorbed in his own thoughts. Here was the climax of these
days of misery and self-questioning that had passed since the trial in
Westminster Hall. It was no use, he argued to himself, to pretend
otherwise. These three men of God were to die for their religion--and a
religion too which was gradually detaching itself to his view from the
mists and clouds that hid it, as the one great reality and truth of God's
Revelation to man. He had come, he knew, to see not an execution but a
martyrdom.

There was a trampling from within, the bolts creaked, and the gate rolled
back; a company of halberdiers emerged, and in their midst the three
priests in laymen's dress; behind followed a few men on horseback, with a
little company of ministers, bible in hand; and then a rabble of officers
and pursuivants. Anthony edged his horse in among the others, as the
crowd fell back, and took up his place in the second rank of riders
between a gentleman of his acquaintance who made room for him on the one
side, and Sir Francis Knowles on the other, and behind the Tower
officials.

Then, once more he heard that ringing bass voice whose first sound
silenced the murmurs of the surging excited crowd.

"God save you all, gentlemen! God bless you and make you all good
Catholics."

Then, as the priest turned to kneel towards the east, he saw his face
paler than ever now, after his long fast in preparation for death. The
rain was still falling as Campion in his frieze gown knelt in the mud.
There was silence as he prayed, and as he ended aloud by commending his
soul to God.

"_In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum._"

* * * *

The three were secured to the hurdles, Briant and Sherwin on the one,
Campion on the other, all lying on their backs, with their feet towards
the horse's heels. The word to start was given by Sir Owen Hopton who
rode with Charke, the preacher of Gray's Inn, in the front rank; the
lashed horses plunged forward, with the jolting hurdles spattering mud
behind them; and the dismal pageant began to move forward through the
crowd on that way of sorrows. There was a ceaseless roar and babble of
voices as they went. Charke, i