Not all the wealth of woman’s tears can move authority to greater mercy on behalf of the red giant. The smug and closet-petted doctor, who cares naught for military matters, is bent on his French peace in spite of all that patron Pitt may say, and it seems a small matter to hang a mob-detested officer. “Soldiers a drug in the market--we are going to be friends with the good Buonaparte,” think Farmer George and his Council when they confabulate on Wednesday afternoon. The Caledonian pencil-notes are consulted, and cobwebs gather fast around the bewildered royal brain. Kingly thoughts dwell lovingly upon the royal prerogative of the gallows--a truly English pastime, worthy of a British prince whose blood has run itself clear of all Hanoverian coagulations. Chancellor Eldon, being interrogated, finds his load of learned lumber ill-digested for the moment, and doubts, and doubts, and doubts. Then some brave and discreet statesman--oblivion shrouds his illustrious name--mentions the mutineers of the ‘Fighting Téméraire’ a dozen or so of whom a few days before had ornamented the yard-arms at Spithead, and King and Council ponder deeply. Newgate howls have been ominous, Newgate cries have been eloquent, and the time-honoured platitude, “One law for rich, another law for poor,” has often ended in window--sometimes royal window--smashing. Mercy seems a great risk, far greater because of the ‘Téméraire’ yard-arm business than the unpopular pardon of Kenneth Mackenzie. On the other side there is the alluring picture of the great triumph of British equity--the balance of justice--‘Téméraire’ rebels hanging on one side of the scale, and mob-hated Joseph Wall on the other. “Foreign nations please observe and copy!” A notable triumph for an English-born German prince. Like the peace that was to be, it seemed an experiment worth the while. Farmer George and Doctor Henry prove to have most forcible willpower in the Council, and when his Gracious Majesty posts off to Windsor at five o’clock, to drink tea with his Princesses, the Governor of Goree has been left for execution. In the condemned cell that same evening the devoted wife and husband hope still for the reprieve that never comes. Keeper Kirby has promised the grief-stricken woman that she shall remain in the gaol till the last possible moment, and while the clock slowly beats its march to the hour of eleven the heart-rending tragedy unfolds its agonies. “God bless you, my dear,” cries the giant in their last embrace. “Take care of the children. Let them think as well of me as you can.” Then, while the Governor of the prison escorts the poor lady along the cold, dark corridors, she sobs forth her one piteous question for the hundredth time: “Is there no hope?” “Madam, I trust your wishes may be fulfilled,” replies Kirby. “But it is now a late hour, and I have received no orders.”