He waved his hands, the warders seized me, and so, like one a-dreaming, I was hurried back to prison. I found it much less crowded than it had been, for many had already gone to death. Many, also, were to die upon the morrow, and for all of us who gathered there that night there was not left a single ray of hope. *CHAPTER XXIV* *Beneath the Gallows* Early in the morning on the twelfth, those who were to die at Lyme (Sam Robins, the fisherman, Sampson Larke, the minister, Dr. Temple, and myself among them) were brought forth from the prison, placed in two carts, and driven on our way to death. As we rumbled through the ancient streets of Dorchester, the trembling, sad-faced townsfolk watched us go, and many tears were shed. Thus we passed out into the silence of the lanes. ’Twas a glorious, sunny morning, and to me the world had never seemed so fair a place as it did then. "’Tis hard," said Dr. Temple, who stood next me, "that we should have to say good-bye to all this brightness." He waved his hand around. "’Tis hard, indeed," I answered. "Naught is left us now, except to go through bravely with the business." "True, true," he murmured: "and I, who have seen death, and fought him too in almost every ugly form, should be the last to fear him now. Sir, my thoughts are chiefly set upon my native town of Nottingham. Wast ever there?" "Nay, sir, but my father was, and he hath told me of it." "Ah! ’tis a lovely place, set high upon the hills, with a noble river winding by it through the meadows. And on its highest hill there stands a fine old church--St. Mary’s it is called. Its great tower rises up before me even now. There was I baptized, confirmed, and married; and there my young wife lieth buried. Ah! if I could but see that spot once more, methinks I should die happier!" He turned his face away, and I was silent. There was much singing on the way, and Sampson Larke, the minister, spoke many ringing words of hope; for though his poor old wife lay dying even then in Lyme, he hid his own grief manfully, and strove amain to comfort those about him. He was a fine, upstanding fellow, and as he stood there in the cart behind us with his long hair streaming in the wind, his hand raised, and his face aglow with zeal, he made a picture that brought into my mind the ancient prophets. As for little Samuel Robins, he bore up bravely, joining with a high shrill voice in hymn and psalm, until at last the great blue bay of Lyme burst suddenly in view. But this was too much for him. Stretching out his hands towards it, he broke down utterly and sobbed like any child.