Fauntleroy is spared a visit to the Press Yard, or to the adjacent apartment, where the manacles of prisoners are knocked off previous to the march to the scaffold. About 7.30 they conduct him to the ‘Upper Condemned Room’ and here his favourite hymn is sung--“God moves in a mysterious way”--and he partakes of the sacrament. From the numerous conflicting reports it may be gathered that Sheriff Brown and his ghastly train--for Alderman Key did not care to be present--attend their victim at a quarter to eight. At the end of the long stone chamber, dimly lighted by two candles, a small group is huddled before the fire--the Rev. Cotton administering platitudes, Baker and Springett on each side of the prisoner with their arms linked in his. Fauntleroy is standing firmly in easy pose, although his senses seem benumbed as if under the influence of a narcotic, and he bows slightly to the Sheriff, who addresses him in a few kindly words. The Ordinary--clever stage-manager--seizes the opportunity to draw the criminal a pace or two apart, and the officers, taking the signal, come behind, and commence to place their ropes around his arms. For a moment he seems terrified, and like a hunted animal shrinks for refuge to his two faithful friends, who gently place his hands across his breast, while the attendants pinion his elbows with their cords. The clock of St Sepulchre--ominous name!--strikes the hour. With a solemn inclination of his head towards the convict the Sheriff moves forward, followed by the white-robed Cotton. Then comes the hapless banker, supported by Baker and Springett. With tightly closed eyes and mechanical steps, as though his nerves were dead and his senses steeped in torpor, he moves almost as an automaton. Through the long vaulted passages, where the tread of footsteps seem to beat a funeral march to the grave, down cold, steep stairs and along damp, cavernous windings, amidst a gloom made more fearful by the red glare of scanty lamps, the procession crawls onward. As it reaches the gate of the long corridor leading into the high, square lobby, from whence the Debtors’ Door opens upon the street, the Ordinary commences the service for the dead. At the sound of the harsh words the wretched sufferer starts, and clasps and unclasps his hands. No other sign of emotion marks his bearing; and even when the boom of the passing bell smites the startled ears of his companions, and their footsteps, as though stayed, pause for a moment involuntarily, he shows no sign of consciousness.