Those in position to see it
best stirred not from their post, but faced the fatal cross-tree, the
motionless ropes, the empty platform, with an untiring, insatiable
gaze, that seemed pregnant with some terrible meaning, while the mob
behind them struggled, and pushed, and raved, and fought; and the
haggard hundreds of gaunt, diseased, stricken wretches, that vainly
contested with the stronger types of ruffianism for a place, loaded
the air with their blasphemies and imprecations. The day broke slowly
and doubtfully upon the scene; a dense yellow, murky fog floated round
the spot, wrapping in its opaque folds the hideous gallows and the
frowning mass of masonry behind. An hour passed, and then a hoarse
murmur swelled upwards from the glistening rows of upturned faces.
The platform was no longer empty; three pinioned men, with white caps
drawn closely over their faces, were standing upon the drop. For a
moment the crowd was awed into stillness; for a moment the responses,
"Christ, have mercy on us," "Christ, have mercy on us," were heard
from the lips of the doomed men, towards whom the sea of faces were
turned. Then came a dull crash, and the mob swayed backwards for an
instant. The drop had fallen, and the victims were struggling in
the throes of a horrible death. The ropes jerked and swayed with
the convulsive movements of the dying men.
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