“I am ready, too,” replied Northumberland, once more embracing his son, whose firmness did not desert him at this trying juncture. And he followed the Lieutenant to the Green. Here they found the priest, and a band of halberdiers waiting to escort him to the scaffold. Among the by-standers stood Simon Renard, who immediately advanced towards him. “How fares your grace!” he asked. “Well enough, sir, I thank you,” answered the Duke, bowing. “I shall be better anon.” The train then set forward, passing through lines of spectators, until it reached the Middle Tower, where it halted, to allow the Lieutenant to deliver the prisoner to the Sheriffs and their officers. This ceremony over, it again set forward, and passed through the Bulwark Gate. Prepared as the Duke was for some extraordinary sight, he was yet taken completely by surprise. The whole area of Tower Hill seemed literally paved with human heads. A line of scaffoldings was erected on the brink of the moat, and every seat in them was occupied. Never before had so vast an assemblage been collected in the same place. The whole of the western ramparts of the fortress—the roof and battlements of the White Tower—every point from which a view of the spectacle could be obtained, was thronged. On the Duke’s appearance, a murmur of satisfaction pervaded the immense host, and he then felt that even if the Queen’s pardon should arrive, his personal safety was more than questionable. Preceded by a band of arquebussiers, armed with calivers, and attended by the sheriffs, the priest, and Simon Renard, Northumberland marched slowly forward. At length, he reached the scaffold. It was surrounded by seats, set aside for persons of distinction; and among its occupants were many of his former friends and allies. Avoiding their gaze, the Duke mounted the scaffold with a firm foot; but the sight of the vast concourse from this elevated point almost unmanned him. As he looked around, another murmur arose, and the mob undulated like the ocean. Near the block stood Manger, leaning on his axe; his features concealed by a hideous black mask. On the Duke’s appearance, he fell on his knees, and, according to custom, demanded forgiveness, which was granted. Throwing aside his robe, the Duke then advanced to the side of the scaffold, and leaning over the eastern rail, thus addressed the assemblage: