Why, indeed, should he pray for a
King whose heart was of stone and who was incapable of showing
compassion?
The silent crowd watched him with bated breath, dimly seeing through
tears that he spoke to the executioner as he ran his finger along the
edge of the axe, and then he laid his head upon the block. The axe fell
once, twice, and again, yet there was not an end.
Then the silence was broken. A wild fury roared from every side.
"Fling Ketch to us!" cried the mob, pressing in upon the guards.
Two more blows were struck by the frightened, cursing headsman. The
martyrdom was accomplished, but the angry and nauseated crowd had gone
mad, and, but for the guards, would have worked their will on Ketch and
perchance on others who had had part in this butchery. It was a raging
crowd, ripe for anything, fiercely lusting to wreak its revenge on
someone; but it was a crowd without a leader. Had a strong man at that
moment assumed command of it, Monmouth's death might have brought
success to the rebellion he had raised. Had a leader been found at that
moment, a short hour might have seen the storming of Whitehall by the
populace, and the King in the hands of his merciless enemies.
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