Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 9, No. 52, February, 1862 | Page 7

with me, and
let us walk in solemn procession to the altar, singing the praises of our
God."
The monks, with the instinctive habit of obedience, fell into procession
behind their leader, whose voice, clear and strong, was heard raising
the Psalm, _"Quare fremunt gentes"_:--
"Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?
"The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel

together, against the Lord, and against his Anointed, saying,
"'Let us break their bands asunder, and cast away their cords from us.'
"He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh.: the Lord shall have them in
derision."
As one voice after another took up the chant, the solemn enthusiasm
rose and deepened, and all present, whether ecclesiastics or laymen, fell
into the procession and joined in the anthem. Amid the wild uproar, the
din and clatter of axes, the thunders of heavy battering-implements on
the stone walls and portals, came this long-drawn solemn wave of
sound, rising and falling,--now drowned in the savage clamors of the
mob, and now bursting out clear and full like the voices of God's
chosen amid the confusion and struggles of all the generations of this
mortal life.
White-robed and grand the procession moved on, while the pictured
saints and angels on the walls seemed to smile calmly down upon them
from a golden twilight. They passed thus into the sacristy, where with
all solemnity and composure they arrayed their Father and Superior for
the last time in his sacramental robes, and then, still chanting, followed
him to the high altar,--where all bowed in prayer. And still, whenever
there was a pause in the stormy uproar and fiendish clamor, might be
heard the clear, plaintive uprising of that strange singing,--"O Lord,
save thy people, and bless thine heritage!"
It needs not to tell in detail what history has told of that tragic night:
how the doors at last were forced, and the mob rushed in; how citizens
and friends, and many of the monks themselves, their instinct of
combativeness overcoming their spiritual beliefs, fought valiantly, and
used torches and crucifixes for purposes little contemplated when they
were made.
Fiercest among the combatants was Agostino, who three times drove
back the crowd as they were approaching the choir, where Savonarola
and his immediate friends were still praying. Father Antonio, too,
seized a sword from the hand of a fallen man and laid about him with
an impetuosity which would be inexplicable to any who do not know
what force there is in gentle natures when the objects of their affections
are assailed. The artist monk fought for his master with the blind
desperation with which a woman fights over the cradle of her child.
All in vain! Past midnight, and the news comes that artillery is planted

to blow down the walls of the convent, and the magistracy, who up to
this time have lifted not a finger to repress the tumult, send word to
Savonarola to surrender himself to them, together with the two most
active of his companions, Frà Domenico da Pescia and Frà Silvestro
Maruffi, as the only means of averting the destruction of the whole
order. They offer him assurances of protection and safe return, which
he does not in the least believe: nevertheless, he feels that his hour is
come, and gives himself up.
His preparations were all made with a solemn method which showed
that he felt he was approaching the last act in the drama of life. He
called together his flock, scattered and forlorn, and gave them his last
words of fatherly advice, encouragement, and comfort,--ending with
the remarkable declaration, "A Christian's life consists in doing good
and suffering evil." "I go with joy to this marriage-supper," he said, as
he left the church for the last sad preparations. He and his doomed
friends then confessed and received the sacrament, and after that he
surrendered himself into the hands of the men who he felt in his
prophetic soul had come to take him to torture and to death.
As he gave himself into their hands, he said, "I commend to your care
this flock of mine, and these good citizens of Florence who have been
with us"; and then once more turning to his brethren, said,--"Doubt not,
my brethren. God will not fail to perfect His work. Whether I live or
die, He will aid and console you."
At this moment there was a struggle with the attendants in the outer
circle of the crowd, and the voice of Father Antonio was heard crying
out earnestly,--"Do not hold me! I will go with him! I must go with
him!"--"Son," said Savonarola, "I charge you on your obedience not to
come. It is I and Frà Domenico who are to die