As the locksmith walked slowly away from Sir John Chester's chambers, he lingered under the trees which shaded the path, almost hoping that he might be summoned to return.

He had turned back thrice, and still loitered at the corner, when the clock struck twelve.
It was a solemn sound, and not merely for its reference to to-morrow; for he knew that in that chime the murderer's knell was rung.

He had seen him pass along the crowded street, amidst the execration of the throng; and marked his quivering lip, and trembling limbs; the ashy hue upon his face, his clammy brow, the wild distraction of his eye--the fear of death that swallowed up all other thoughts, and gnawed without cessation at his heart and brain.

He had marked the wandering look, seeking for hope, and finding, turn where it would, despair.

He had seen the remorseful, pitiful, desolate creature, riding, with his coffin by his side, to the gibbet.