Behind the mother and the son came the confessor, a dull-faced, heavy monk; and then a good number of guards, and one or two men in black robes,--probably exempts, or other inferior officers of the court. But the eyes of Edward Langdale were fixed upon the mother and her son; and the thought of his own dear mother gave him the power--I might almost call it the faculty--of sympathizing with the noble-minded woman, to a degree that made the whole scene one of actual agony. "I wish I could get out," he said, speaking to the old man, who was jammed up against him: "this is horrible. Can you not make way?" "Try to force your way through the castle-wall," replied the other, cynically: "you have but to see a man die, young gentleman." "Ay, but how?" said Edward. "By the sword," said the old man: "it is an interesting sight,--much better than by the cord. I have seen every execution that has taken place in the city for twenty years. Perhaps I may see yours some day. They are fine sights,--the only sights that interest me now; but this is likely to be a bungled business, for the old countess there bribed both the executioners to get out of the way, and this fellow does not understand the trade. He is paler than the criminal. See how he shakes!" Edward raised his eyes for an instant and saw the unhappy mother supporting her luckless son up the very steps of the scaffold,--not that he wanted aid, for his step was firm and his look bold and frowning. There was a fearful sort of fascination in the sight; and the lad gazed on till he saw the last embrace taken and the young count make a sign and speak a word to the executioner. Then he withdrew his eyes, till, a moment after, there was a shrill cry of anguish and a murmur amongst the crowd; and he looked up again only to see the wretched young man, all bleeding, leaning his wounded head upon his mother's bosom. The executioner had missed his stroke. Again and again he missed it. He complained of the sword: a heavier one was handed up to him; but still his shaking arm refused to perform its hideous office, till, after more than thirty blows,[4] the head of the unhappy young man was literally hacked off, almost at his mother's feet. The noble woman raised her hands and her eyes to heaven, exclaiming, "I thank thee, O God, that my son has died a martyr and not a criminal!" The last acts of the terrible drama Edward did not see. He felt as if his heart would burst with the mingled feelings of indignation and horror which all he had beheld awakened; and after the second or third blow he kept his eyes resolutely bent down, till the pressure of the crowd relaxed as the spectators of the bloody scene began to disperse. Then, sick at heart, and with a strange feeling of hatred for the world, he turned his steps back to the inn. He was in no mood for conversation with any one. [Footnote 4: Some say seven-and-twenty.] CHAPTER XXIII.