The executioner, who was waiting with one of his assistants in the outer vestibule of the prison, threw an oblique glance upon the prisoner, then, looking at his watch, exclaimed, “come, make haste! we are already after our time—the market is nearly over.” “Oh, but you have not far to go,” replied the turnkey; then addressing the prisoner—“old one,” said he, “it will soon be over, and the weather is fine. Here, take this, it will keep up your spirits.” And he handed him a glass of brandy, which the prisoner drank off with evident delight. “Thanks, good master,” he replied, returning the glass to the good natured turnkey, “I shall never forget your kindness.” “Well, well,” said the latter, “that is settled. Never mind what I do for you, man—it is little enough, God knows—only behave well—dost hear?” The executioner’s man drew from his pocket a long and strong cord, with a slip knot at the end, and tightly tied the hands of the convict, who calmly looked at him, and said not a word. The executioner himself carried a board, on which was a sort of notice, partly printed and partly written; and all three proceeded slowly towards the market place, where the prisoner was to be placed in the pillory for one hour, and exposed to the gibes and taunts of an almost ferocious populace. From the scaffold to which he was fastened, the old mendicant cast a look of pity upon the crowd, and said— “Well, and what are you looking at? am I an object of such intense curiosity? But you are right; look at me well, for you shall never more behold me. I shall not return from the place to which they are going to take me—not that I fear a dungeon, for I have been too long accustomed to have no other bed than the cold ground. No, I shall return hither no more; and I should have done well had I not returned this time. But I could not help it. I was born here, though I never told any body so; and I love the spot where I first drew breath. ’Tis natural enough; yet why should I love it? I never knew either home or parents—the latter left me, when an infant, upon the steps of the church of St. Louis.” Here the sun-burnt countenance of the old mendicant assumed an expression of bitterness. “Who knows,” he continued, “but I may have among you some uncles or cousins—perhaps even nearer relatives.” The crowd gathered round the scaffold, listening to the words of the mendicant. “And my excellent father,” said the latter, “what a pity he is not here to own me! Perhaps he would be delighted at the _elevation_ to which I have attained. For my own part, I never had a son; but if I had, I could not have deserted him. He should never have been able to reproach me with being the author of his misery. The other day I was hungry—I asked for a morsel of bread—everybody refused to give it me; and that is the reason why I am here.” As the old man uttered the last sentence, his head fell upon his chest, and he wept.