On the day before the execution there was already a fair crowd that gathered solely to watch the preparations, despite the rain that intermittently swept like smoke over Tower Hill. Many of the crowd were connoisseurs of this place, remembering the deaths of noblemen who had the privilege of sword or axe, the death swift so long as they had given a fat purse to the executioner. There was general agreement that they would have preferred Dorcas Scammell to die at Tyburn; the facilities for spectators were better there, though they were sympathetic to the authorities who thought it unlikely that they could safely escort the witch that far. She was bound to be lynched somewhere on the journey across London.

Carpenters came and constructed a scaffold. The crowd jeered them good-naturedly, yelling at them to build the platform higher. Later, as the rope was fixed to the crossbar, a portion of the crowd began to shout that the witch should be burned, as witches used to be burned, but the anger died when one of the workmen mimed a dancing, hanging death on the raw planks. Laughter sounded on the rainswept hill.

Someone, seeing the completed gibbet, asked if the sentence had been passed, but it seemed that the authorities were merely anticipating Sir John Henge’s final decision. Rumor swept the crowd, but nothing was certain.

Some of the chief actors in the drama were cheered by the people. The weather improved, a weak sun shining on the hill when the hangman came to inspect the work. He waved at his public, exchanging jokes with them, delighting the crowd when he pretended to measure up a fat, loud-mouthed woman who screamed for the workmen to build the gibbet even higher.

Faithful Unto Death Hervey visited the hill three times from the courtroom within the Tower. At his third visit there was still no sentence, but he climbed on to the scaffold and calmed the crowd by waving his hands.

“It will soon be over, good people! Soon! Tomorrow you will see a witch die! Tomorrow this city will be a safer place for us all!” They cheered him again. He prayed with them, asking God to give him strength to fight the evil of witchcraft, and then he promised the crowd that he would deny himself all comfort, all rest, until the last witch had been extirpated from among the Saints. The Saints clapped and shouted for him.

Far off, in the Strand, Sir Grenville Cony was in his house. He expected four eminent visitors, members of the Commons who were devout Puritans, and so the naked Narcissus was hidden behind its closed shutters. A Bible, that his secretary had lavishly inked with marginal notations, was prominent on his desk. The four visitors were waiting and would continue to wait until Sir Grenville had finished with his present visitor.

Septimus Barnegat was perhaps the only man who did not fear Sir Grenville Cony. Barnegat could have no fear, for as an astrologer he sheltered behind the destiny of stars and planets, and the truth he told could not be swayed by fear or favor. Barnegat was an expensive astrologer, as highly thought of as any seer in Europe, and he charged high fees to those merchants who sought his advice about insurance, or as to whether a ship should set sail on a particular tide. Barnegat was a busy man, in demand by politicians, lawyers, merchants and nobility. He was also irascible, jealous of his science and easily annoyed by questions that were beyond that science’s competence. Sir Grenville had just asked such a question and Barnegat’s small, fierce face scowled as he replied.