The Works of George W. M. Reynolds — page 103: what you’re looking at

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

S6 REYNOLDS’ WORKS all except his hat, which had been taken from him, it being a part of the ceremony that he should walk bareheaded to the scaffold. But the masses of his coal black hair clustered in natural curls above his high forehead, and doubtless many a spectatress thought it was a pity that so fine a man should © be doomed to die. However vindictive the public sentiment had been toward him while he was still in his dungeon, it demonstrated itself not now; neither by word nor gesture was an inimical feeling displayed. On the contrary, there were some evidences of sympathy in many parts of the crowd and at some of the balconies. Thus the procession moved on, the effigy being carried in front, the monks chanting, the alms being collected, the acolytes bearing the lanterns with the wax tapers, and the crowds crossing themselves in respect for that gore-stained image of the Saviour. The scaffold was reached; the priests ranged themselves in two rows near the steps, up which Ned Russell mounted, aceom- panied by the executioner, the notary, the gendarmes, and the Franciscan who spoke English. Every eye was strained to observe how the doomed man now conducted himself, but not the slightest evidence of fear could be detected. His step was firm, his looks quailed not, neither did his lips quiver. He bent his gaze steadily upon the upright post to which the strangling-iron was affixed, and in obedience to a signal made by the executioner, he sat himself down upon a low, wooden stool placed against that post. A breathless silence pervaded the crowd; every neck was thrust forward, all eyes were riveted upon that focus of such dread and fearful attraction; the sky was serene above, the sunbeams glinted on the points of bayonets, and on the drawn sabres of the gendarmes. It was a perfect sea of faces upturned toward the scaffold; or, to borrow another metaphor, the vast square itself seemed paved with human countenances, while the spectators in the balconies had the appearance of countless groups of individuals sus- pended in iron cages to the house fronts. Yes, all was silent, save and except the deep hollow chanting of the priests, in which was drowned the voice of the Franciscan who spoke English, and who was earnestly enjoining the doomed man to press his lips to a small crucifix which the monk approached near enough to his countenance for the purpose. But Rus- sell firmly though respectfully refused to comply with the CONNIE OO KS (E(0) m