Calmly and brightly the sun rose on the morning of the fourth day after the trial; as calmly and brightly he climbed toward the zenith, as though he were not to look down upon one of the most fiendish deeds that ever disgraced England’s soil. In the field of St. Giles, in the outskirts of the city, workmen were busy putting finishing touches to a strange piece of carpentry. A row of holes had been dug at a distance of about six feet from each other, and in these were placed stout beams of wood. Another row was then put about ten feet from the first, and the same kind of posts being inserted, crossbeams were fastened from a spot of one row to the corresponding one in the other. Another construction of the same kind was placed on one side of the first, leaving an open space of some twenty feet in width between. On each of the crossbeams were fastened heavy chains, each terminating in a large iron ring. Meanwhile other men had been arriving, bearing fagots of dry wood, which were arranged in order under the chains, and then the men all paused and looked toward the town. Not long had they to wait. A procession soon appeared, headed by a guard of foot-soldiers, who encircled the rows of gallows, for such they were, and so made way for the rest of the train to approach. Next came the executioners, some with lighted torches, others with blacksmith’s hammers. Then came the thirty-nine prisoners, each accompanied by a friar of some order, followed by another guard, and lastly the rabble, consisting of all the mob of London, clustered as closely as the troops would permit them. Some of the Lollards looked pale and haggard, and their limbs, so long chained in damp dungeons, seemed hardly capable of dragging them along. Each, as he reached the spot, cast a glance at the instruments of torture, but none drew back, or shrank from the fearful sight. To their illumined vision those piles of fagots, those bars, those chains, were but so many Jacob’s ladders, gates to heaven. Beverly mounted to his place as a newly anointed king might step for the first time on his throne. Turning to his friend he said in his clear, unfaltering voice: "We have breakfasted in a world of tribulation, we shall sup with Christ in the kingdom of glory. I am three-score years old, brother, and I thank God I have lived to see this day!" But Ashton’s heart was heavy; not for himself, but for the cause, the people, the land he loved so well. "I fear me this is a grievous day for England," was his reply. "Christ giveth the victory!" said the preacher, his face lighting up with intense joy. The fierce gaze of the executioners standing around was abashed at the unearthly beauty of that look. He had no veil that he might, like Moses, draw over his beaming countenance, and "all men, seeing his face as it had been the face of an angel," marveled. In so loud a tone as to be heard by every one of the awe-struck assembly, he continued: