might strike. He glanced aside at me, but with no response in the
depths of his eyes, in which I could perceive only a dumb anguish of
despair. Beyond him marched Grover, one time butcher at Harwich, a
stocky, big-fisted fellow, with a ghastly sword wound, yet red and
unhealed on his face, extending from hair to chin, his little pig eyes
glinting ugly, and his lips cursing. The man beyond was a soldier, a
straight, athletic fellow, with crinkly black beard, who kept his eyes
front, paying no heed to the cries. The guard pressed the people back
as we shuffled along, but there was no way of keeping them still. I
heard cries of encouragement, shouts of recognition, sobs of pity, and
occasionally a roar of anger as we passed.

"Good lads! God be with yer!"

"Thet one thar is sore hurted--it's a damn shame."

"Thar's Teddy--poor laddie! Luck go with yer, Teddy."

"Ter hell with Black Jeffries, say I!"

"Hush, mon, er ye'll be next ter go--no, I don't know who sed it."

"See thet little chap, Joe; lots ther lad bed ter do with the war."

"They all look mighty peaked--poor devils, four months in gaol."

"Stand back there now. Stand back!"

The guards prodded them savagely with the butts of their musketoons,
thus making scant room for us to shuffle through, out upon the far end