The prince's interest seemed to grow. "I see not wherein I can move," he muttered, "and I would not if I could." He remained sunk in thought. "Harkye, sir, I am not one of those that love to deck out a city with carrion. I see naught gained by making war with the dead. Stone dead is the end of the story as far as it concerns a soldier. This healing and blessed Parliament, I hear, holds a gibbet a prettier sight than a stricken field; that is not my mind, and if I can move any of these valiant pantaloons to let General Harrison's body be delivered to his friends, I will do it. Good day to you." And, disregarding Dick's clumsy attempts at gratitude, the prince turned his back, and resumed his search for his pen. Mr. Cowth, who had kept prudently in the background, took Dick by the arm, and pulled him out of the room. "Take my thanks, Harrison," he chuckled, as he led him downstairs; "the black dog is off his Highness's back, and when he waits on his Majesty to-night, he will be worthy himself. Ah, Harrison; why art thou a Roundhead? Is not that a master worth serving?" "Ay, indeed," answered Richard, heartily; "he is a most noble and generous gentleman--well-nigh as noble as him they will hang on Saturday"--he added bitterly to himself; "but my lot is cast, friend, and I may not change it." "I am sorry to leave thee in such a mind," answered Mr. Cowth, with mock solemnity, "and I pray thee lay to heart my parting words. Forswear Square Toes; repent thee of Republicanism, and I'll stand godfather to thy new life! So go and get thee wisdom!" And the young fellow turned, laughing, back to his work, while Richard sadly retraced his steps to Mrs. Harrison's lodgings. CHAPTER III. THE END OF A REGICIDE. "Sound, thou Trumpet of God, come forth, Great Cause, to array us, King and leader appear, thy soldiers sorrowing seek thee." CLOUGH, _The Bothie._ A solid mass of people thronged the space where three roads met and Charing Cross once stood, and above the serried heads rose the black skeleton of the gallows and the executioner's fire crackled and leapt below. But the sight inspired little horror or pity in the throng: orange girls called their wares, squalid beggars beset beplumed gentlemen, burly ruffians shouldered back prim citizens in their broadcloth and silver buckles; the press, the smell, the noise of shouts and oaths and scraps of songs were much the same as had hailed the Second Charles's entry into London six months before; but the faces were changed, their coarse joviality was gone, and they were inflamed with the frenzy of the bull-fighter, the loathsome curiosity that will not miss one horrid detail, even if the gazer must trample down his own mother to get a better view of the butchery.