All the time he chats calmly to those around, bearing himself in this, as through all other scenes to the end, as a brave heart and a gentleman. Then the clatter of arms is heard outside, for the City Marshal is bringing up his troop. A moment later the door is thrown back, and from the steps a stentorian voice bellows aloud, “Mr Ryland’s coach.” With brisk, easy steps he passes out into the street, closely followed by the attendant Ordinary. Suddenly he springs forward, and in an instant a tiny girl has thrown her little hands around his pinioned arms, while he kisses her passionately--his own daughter, the child of sin. Tenderly they induce him to hasten the agonising farewell, but his steel-clad soul is steadfast and unshaken. Tearing himself away, he hurries on with a firm tread. Then the procession moves forward. A strong company of Sheriff’s men and City Marshal’s constables leads the way, parting the dense surging mob for the progress of the official chariots and the black mourning-coach that follows next in line. Another carriage, in which sits one Lloyd, an ex-housebreaker turned psalm-singing penitent, comes after that of Ryland, and then the pair of loathsome carts with four more miserable victims. No cant or cowardice marks the bearing of the poor artist. Unlike the conventional hypocrite of such a time, his lips do not move in response to the exhortations of white-banded Ordinary Villette. No prayer-book rests in his fingers. Having made his peace with God, he does not deign to humour the prejudices of man. Unjustly, they are sending him to a cruel death. Why should he appear to worship in the fashion they have chosen? Thus, while the procession moves onward, his calm, inscrutable face gazes upon the scene that passes before his eyes.