The Works of George W. M. Reynolds — page 99: what you’re looking at

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

82 REYNOLDS’ WORKS could be seen through the darkness which surrounded the centre of ight where the torches blazed. The work advanced rapidly; in a few hours the scaffold rose above the heads of the girdling ranks of soidiery, and long ere the first streaks of dawn were discernible in the horizon which joined the eastern waves, the sinister upright post with the strangling iron was erected. Then, a portion of the guard being left to protect the scaffold the remainder marched away with the workmen in the midst, the crowd being forbidden to follow on pain of the most serious consequences. The masked workmen were thus escorted to some obscure part of the city of Barcelona, and, having received a liberal remuneration, they dispersed, sneaking stealthily away to their respective homes. | Morning dawned upon Barcelona; the scaffold, complete in all its appointments, stood in the market-place; a guard of soldiers surrounded it. ‘The crowd was every instant be- coming more dense, there being the same anxiety on the part of the Barcelonese to secure “‘ a good place ’”’ to view the execution as that which the populace of London displays on a public strangulation day in the Old Bailey. The bal- conies, too, of the circumjacent houses were thronged from an early hour; high prices were paid for sitting or standing room, and at the casements of many of the principal habita- tions, well-dressed ladies might be seen. These, with their garments of black silk, their mantillas richly bordered with lace, their fans, and their satin slippers, appeared as uf they were spectatresses awaiting the presence of some gorgeous pageant or gay scene, instead of the sombre and sinister procession of death. Yes, there they were, those lovely Catalan women, seated in their balconies, some sipping their chocolate, others conversing gaily, others quietly reading a novel, and all awaiting the dread ceremony with the easiest air in the world. But what of Ned Russell? What of him for whom the paraphernalia of death had been thus elaborately prepared, and on whose account these crowds were assembled? He was a prisoner in his gloomy cell, — having bidden adieu te all hope, and manfully resigning himself to the fate which he deemed inevitable. He feared not to die, and yet the hardy sailor brushed away a tear as he thought of that loving and much-loved being who would have to deplore his loss. CONNIE DOO KS (E(0)