On the morning of the fatal day he rose early, and calling his attendant, desired him to employ great care in dressing and preparing him for the unusual solemnity before him. At length he appeared attired in his customary suit of black, arranged with more than his wonted neatness. His collar, edged with deep lace, set carefully round his neck, and was spotless in color, and accurate in every fold, while his pensive countenance exhibited no evidence of emotion or excitement. Bishop Juxon assisted him at his devotions, and paid the last melancholy duties to the king. After this, he was permitted to see such of his family as were still in England. These consisted only of his two younger children, the Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Gloucester. Notwithstanding the tender years of the young Elizabeth, she seemed fully to appreciate her father’s unhappy situation, and her young heart appeared well nigh bursting. “Weep not for thy father, my child,” said Charles, kissing her tenderly; “he but goeth where thou mayest one day meet him again.” She threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed aloud. He pressed her to his bosom and soothed her gently, but seemed for the first time since his interview with Alice Heath, on the night previous to his sentence, half unmanned. “It is God, my love, who hath called thy poor parent hence, and we must submit to his will in all things. Bear my love to your mother, and tell her that my last thoughts were with her and our precious children.” Separating himself from her by a great effort, and then pressing the boy to his heart, he motioned to the attendants to remove them, lest the trial of this interview might, at the last, unnerve his well-sustained resolution and courage. The muffled bells now announced with mournful distinctness, that the fatal moment was approaching. The noisy tramp of the excited populace—ever eager to sate their vulgar gaze on any bloody spectacle, but anticipating extraordinary gratification from the novel sight of the execution of their king—was plainly audible. Presently, the guard came to lead him out. He was conducted by a private gallery and staircase into the court below, and thence conveyed in a sedan-chair to the scaffold, followed by the shouts and cries of the crowd. About the time that these sounds were dying away from the neighborhood of Lisle’s house, William Heath hastily entered the library, and taking pen and paper, wrote the following brief letter.