unspeakably noisome that Richard Southwell finally petitioned the Queen that his son be put to death if he deserved it, or else, as he was a gentleman, that he be treated as such. This protest availed somewhat, for the prisoner was allowed to receive clothing and a few other necessaries and even some books; of which, however, he asked only for the Bible and St. Bernard.
At last, in 1595—and without any previous warning, says the St. Omer MS.—he was hurried off to Westminster and placed on trial for High Treason. The courtesy, dignity and Christian meekness of Father Southwell throughout this travesty of justice were most impressive. When questioned, he pleaded "not guilty of any treason"; but he freely acknowledged the only crime with which he was charged—that of fulfilling the duties of a Catholic priest to his suffering co-religionists. The result was fore-ordained; England had a law, "and by that law he ought to die." Once more torture did its revolting work upon his much-tried body; then, at dawn next morning, his gaoler bore him the final summons. "You could not bring me more joyful tidings," the priest answered simply.
So at daybreak, on 22 or 23 February, 1595, he was placed in a sledge and drawn to Tyburn for execution. Bishop Challoner tells us that a notorious highwayman was executed on the same day to divert popular attention from Father Southwell's doom; nevertheless, the usual mob awaited him. The priest who was to pour out his life-blood for these English people, the poet who had sung to them from his dungeon, gazed down upon the upturned faces—upon the hostile, the friendly, and the merely curious. Then, signing himself with the Cross, he began to speak. "Whether we live, we live unto the Lord; or
