“Aw right, get on down there.” Those words, uttered in a low growl by one of his three burly guards, brought him sharply back to the sorry present. So, too, did the nudge of a rifle butt in the small of his back with which the guard emphasized his command. Matt winced, stumbled, and would have fallen out of the back of the dirty farm cart, which had just rumbled to a halt after conveying him to Tyburn from Newgate Prison, if another guard, perhaps more humane than his fellow, had not caught hold of the chain that linked his shackled wrists and jerked him back upright. Not so long ago Matt would have felt a murderous flash of rage at being so treated, but lately he had been unable to summon emotion of any sort. He felt nothing but a curious blackness, as if he were already dead. Inwardly he blessed that lack of feeling. They were determined to do their worst to him, determined to wring every last drop of pain and suffering from his battered flesh. But he was beyond pain at last, and nearly beyond their reach. For that reason alone he was ready to welcome death with open arms.

“G’wan, get down. We ain’t got all day.” The first guard prodded him again with the rifle, sounding impatient. Matt thought wryly that he must be keeping the man from something important, like his luncheon. Well, no matter. He was ready to go. They were determined that he would die, and if he did not walk to meet the death they had decreed for him, they would drag him to it. He preferred to spend his last moments on earth like a man, not a cringing dog. Clenching his teeth so hard that a little muscle jumped in the side of his jaw, he clambered awkwardly down from the cart, stumbling and nearly falling as the short, thick chain between the irons on his ankles tripped him up.