Yet the footsteps never pause. Forward still, winding through St Giles, the highroad to Tyburn opens to the view. There is no halt now for the Lazar-house bowl, nor would those fettered men in the carts wish to quaff it. Huddled together in the first, the three are babbling supplications; prone and fainting, a half-dying creature is stretched within the last. In front, the hysterical housebreaker is swaying like a drunkard on the seat of his coach, still quavering forth his piteous hymn. Only the artist, whose carriage leads the way to the shambles, gazing calmly around with grave, stony face, will have no truck with the cant of humanity. For his thoughts are far distant, fleeing from the mighty roll of footsteps till they soften to his ears like the murmur of muffled drums. All around him are visions of bygone days. Yon narrow road that is pouring forth its human torrent leads to Soho, where, with the gentle Gwynn, he used to visit the gilded palace of Therese Cornelys, or that other Carlisle House, the fencing-school of splendid Angelo. Down that long street is Golden Square, but there is no pretty Miss Angel to weep for him. And far away, beyond the distant horizon, lies the palace of his king, but before it there is reared the gaunt, frightful spectre of the triple tree. Then the sound of voices swells louder while the march is stayed. Through the windows of his coach he can see the three bare posts close at hand, so that he can almost touch them. Slowly the creaking carts roll forward, halting beneath the wooden bars, and a sweeping circle of soldiers spreads itself around. Perched upon the park wall is a long mass of expectant faces. Here and there rise huge stands, tier upon tier, choked to the full with swaying humanity. As far as the eye can reach is a dense, surging throng, crushing forward, ever crushing, as though eager to press the victims to their doom.