Soon after this a strange thing happened; for as we gained the bottom of the hill and neared the sea, the horses utterly refused to face it. They kicked and plunged, and neither word nor blow could urge them forward. It seemed as if the poor dumb beasts rebelled against the duty forced upon them. So, in the end, we were taken out and marched on foot down to the place of death. The gallows (two stout uprights with a cross-beam) had been set up behind the Cobb--that is, upon the western side of it, not twenty paces from the spot where Monmouth landed. Here a silent, awe-struck crowd was gathered, and as we passed between the lines of saddened, tearful faces, ’twas like a funeral procession. Around the gallows stood the sheriff and his officers, together with some soldiers with a captain in command. The latter had a list of victims ready in his hand, and no time was lost in going forward with the brutal business. The way of it was this. Standing ready, with the noose around his neck, the prisoner was asked if he had aught to say. If he had, he said it (providing it was not too long or violent), then he climbed up a ladder reared against the scaffold, and was at once turned off therefrom. Ye may guess how sickening a sight this was to me who came the last of them! ’Twas worse than death itself to see my friends swung thus into eternity; yet though I tried to look another way I could not. Number ten was Sampson Larke, and he, who had fought with Cromwell, and had girded on his sword again for Monmouth, was not the man to tremble now. He spoke both fearlessly and long--so long, in fact, that the captain stopped him. "Then," said he, "I will speak to One who I am sure will hear me." With that he uttered one swift prayer, and having blessed the people, climbed the ladder and went bravely to his death. A gasping groan ran through the crowd and sobs broke out on all sides, for he was much beloved, and not a few there would have gladly died for him. "Number eleven! Benjamin Temple." The doctor grasped my hand, said "God bless thee, friend. Farewell!" then stepped firmly to his place. He told the people what was known to me already--namely, that he hailed from Nottingham, and was entirely innocent, having had no knowledge that the Duke was bent upon rebellion when he sailed with him from the Texel; also, that he died at peace with all men. This done, he made a simple prayer, then climbed to death. Little Sam Robins was the next to go, and to me, at least, he was the saddest sight of any. He showed no fear, he neither spoke nor faced the people, but turning to the sea he said a long good-bye to what had been so dear to him, and with his eyes still fixed thereon he died. "Number thirteen! Michael Fane."