The Works of George W. M. Reynolds — page 102: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

NED RUSSELL | 85 had to be threaded in order to arrive at the place of execution. These thoroughfares were completely lined with troops, behind whom there were but a few stragglers as lookers-on, those whose curiosity was excited on the occasion having long ere this secured their places in the vicinity of the scaffold. Nor were the balconies of the houses in these streets much erowded, — the inhabitants of those dwellings having lke- wise proceeded to that point which was the focus of supreme attraction. Just outside the gate of the gaol, about twenty more Franciscan monks were assembled, attended by a couple of acolytes, each of whom bore a lantern fixed at the end of a wand, and with wax tapers burning inside, the breeze which blew from the sea rendering it necessary for the lights to be thus protected. But the main feature of the religious para- phernalia remains to be described. It consisted of an enormous crucifix, on which was a pasteboard efhgy of the Saviour, the size of life. It was carefully and skilfully painted, but had a most hideous and ghastly effect; inas- much as it represented the gore trickling down from the crown of thorns, from the hands and the feet, pierced with nails, and from the wound in the side. This figure was borne at the head of the procession, and as it advanced, the soldiers crossed themselves, and most of the stragglers behind the military rank fell upon their knees. The monks began to chant the litany in deep lugubrious voices, while two men wearing long dark cloaks solicited alms, which were to be expended in masses for the doomed man’s soul. In this way the procession threaded the streets leading toward the great square, on reaching which the hum of voices that had hitherto prevailed on the part of the crowds _ gathered there sank into a dead silence, and nought was heard but the chanting of the priests and the slow tread of footsteps. A pathway up to the scaffold was kept clear in the midst of the multitude by two lines of soldiers, and over their heads silver and copper coins were showered for the benefit of the prisoner’s soul,—the money being duly gathered up by the collectors in the long, dark cloaks. Meanwhile Ned Russell had advanced in the midst of the procession with a firm step and a manly bearing. There was no bravado in his looks, — merely the fortitude of a truly courageous man. He was apparelled in his sailor’s garb, CONnNICDOOKS (C(O)