He climbed to the top of the faggots, jumping up and down to test them, and then his assistant nailed two chains to the stake that would bind Campion’s neck and waist. Back at the foot of the great pyre the executioner ordered two holes forced in the piled faggots, holes where he would place the fire, and only then was he satisfied.

Those closest to the fire would see best, though the cordon of soldiers who held them forty feet from the piled timber were constantly being asked to remove their helmets and crouch a little. Small children were pushed between the troops to wait expectant in the warming sun for this spectacle they had stayed up all night to see. The next best vantage points were on the houses to the west of Tower Hill where the rich had rented rooms. Some householders offered refreshments as part of the price, while others set up spyglasses in windows and on roof-leads; every space was crammed. To the east, on the ramparts of the Tower itself, the privileged guests of soldiers and officials stared down at the huge throng. The morning passed slowly.

The preachers had been active the night before, whipping the faithful into a new hysteria, and now those same ministers moved among the crowd and held extemporary meetings. The air was loud with psalms and prayers.

The children fretted, wanting the entertainment to begin, while some toddlers cried, thinking their parents would not lift them up soon enough to see the fire. The pie-sellers forced their way through the throng, shouting their cries, while water-sellers carried their heavy barrels on their backs.

It was a holiday, a true holiday, a holy-day, because today the wishes of God, the preachers said, were being fulfilled by the children of God. Today a woman would die in exquisite, horrid agony to protect the kingdom of God, and it was no wonder, the preachers said, that He had sent fine weather.

They had told Campion, the previous day, that the scarlet dress was the only dress available. Now it had been taken away and in its place she was dressed in a light, cotton shift. It was shapeless, loose and she suspected it would flare up at the first touch of flame to scorch her body.

She seemed, to her jailers, to be in a daze. Ever since Francis Lapthorne had disappeared and she had realized, too late, that he had been yet another of her enemies, she had given up all hope.

Only once in the time since had she shown emotion. The Reverend Perilly’s letter had reached her and she had cried terribly. Partly she cried for joy, that Toby lived, yet she cried for herself that there would be no green meadows beside a stream with him. She would die.

The jailers let her cry her heart out. They were embarrassed.

The Reverend Faithful Unto Death Hervey was not embarrassed. He would accompany her to the scaffold, and he had prayed that, on this her last journey, she might repent. That would make a fine story! He could preach how the witch had begged forgiveness, had thrown herself on God’s mercies, and how he, Faithful Unto Death, had led her to the throne of grace. He came into Campion’s room with the soldiers who would take her to the stake and he started immediately, preaching the word in her dumb, dazed face.