It consisted of a troop of mounted soldiers, equipped in all respects like those stationed at the scaffold, with their captain at their head, and followed by two of their number with hurdles attached to their steeds, on which were tied the unfortunate victims.

Both were young men--both apparently prepared to meet their fate with firmness and resignation.

They had been brought from Radcliffe Hall--an old moated and fortified mansion belonging to a wealthy family of that name, situated where the close, called Pool Fold, now stands, and then recently converted into a place of security for recusants; the two other prisons in Manchester--namely, the New Fleet on Hunt's Bank, and the gaol on Salford Bridge,--not being found adequate to the accommodation of the numerous religious offenders.
By this time, the cavalcade had reached the place of execution.

The soldiers drove back the throng with their pikes, and cleared a space in front of the scaffold; when, just as the cords that bound the limbs of the priests were unfastened, a woman in a tattered woollen robe, with a hood partially drawn over her face,--the features of which, so far as they could be discerned, were sharp and attenuated,--a rope girded round her waist, bare feet, and having altogether the appearance of a sister of Charity, sprang forward, and flung herself on her knees beside them.
Clasping the hem of the garment of the nearest priest, she pressed it to her lips, and gazed earnestly at him, as if imploring a blessing.
"You have your wish, daughter," said the priest, extending his arms over her.

"Heaven and our lady bless you!" The woman then turned towards the other victim, who was audibly reciting the _Miserere_.
"Back, spawn of Antichrist!" interposed a soldier, rudely thrusting her aside.