Two men were to be executed at eight that morning. Again and again the
people turned to look at the clock. It hung by the side of the dial in
the cupola of the old Town Hall. How slowly moved its tardy figures!
God forgive them, there were those in that crowd who would have helped
forward, if they could, its passionless pulse. And a few minutes more
or fewer in this world or the next, of what account were they in the
great audit of men who were doomed to die?
* * * * *
In a room of the guard-house the condemned sat together. They had been
brought from the castle in the night.
"We shall fight our last battle to-day," said Ralph. "The enemy will
take our camp, but, God willing, we shall have the victory. Never
lower the flag. Cheer up! Keep a brave heart! A few swift minutes
more, and all will be well!"
Sim was crouching at a fire, wringing his lean hands or clutching his
long gray hair.
"Ralph, it shall never be! God will never see it done!"
"Put away the thought," replied Ralph.
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