Alexander M'Keand had long since prepared himself for the worst, and had fixed his attention entirely upon religious exercises. Upon being informed of the statements of his unhappy brother, he exclaimed, "Oh, God, forgive him! he is guilty, and well he knows it; it was he who stabbed Mrs. Blears below stairs, while I murdered the woman above in the room, for which I hope God will forgive me--I was drunk when I did it." He declined stating anything as to his motives, and it was judged prudent not to disturb him by further questions. The wretched man appeared to possess much determination and firmness of nerve, and throughout the whole of the last awful scene was calm and penitent. He declined seeing any person, and expressed a wish not to be disturbed by any visitor whatsoever; and begged the reverend chaplain to have it made known that it was his first crime, as it had been circulated that he had been concerned in a murder and robberies before. On Sunday the unhappy brothers met in the chapel for the first time since their condemnation, but Michael averted his head, and seemed desirous of avoiding any conversation or notice of Alexander. They were placed in a pew by themselves. At six o'clock on Monday morning the criminals were led to the chapel, and received the sacrament, and remained at prayer for above an hour. Alexander exclaimed, "Oh, God, have mercy on me," almost incessantly. Michael was quite sullen, and seemed scarcely able to stand or walk. A few minutes after seven o'clock, they were pinioned, and the under sheriff and his officers entered the chapel and demanded the culprits. Mr. Thomas Higgins, the governor, caused the M'Keands to advance to the chapel door, and withdrew a few paces; the procession then moved from the chapel to the place of execution, at the exterior of the north-western part of the castle. Michael walked with a hesitating step, and appeared dreadfully dismayed. Alexander was more collected, and his lips appeared as if moving in silent prayer. At half-past seven o'clock precisely, a window which opens on hinges as a door, and which led immediately to the scaffold, opened, and the moment of expiation had arrived--no bell tolled, nor was there any other funeral rite to mark the approach of the murderers' death; all was conducted with imposing silence, and not a murmur of pity appeared to escape from the crowd. Everything being arranged, the caps were drawn over the culprits eyes; the chaplain read a part of the burial-service, the drop fell, and the wretched men were launched into eternity. After their bodies had hung the usual time, they were cut down and delivered over to the surgeons for dissection.