of utter
confusion; and the rain, which had already been felt in scattered drops,
began to fall with rapidly growing violence, wetting the fuel, and
running in streams off the platform, wetting the weary hungry people to
the skin, and driving every man's disgust and rage inwards to ferment
there in the damp darkness.

Everybody knew now that the Trial by Fire was not to happen. The
Signoria was doubtless glad of the rain, as an obvious reason, better
than any pretext, for declaring that both parties might go home. It was
the issue which Savonarola had expected and desired; yet it would be an
ill description of what he felt to say that he was glad. As that rain
fell, and plashed on the edge of the Loggia, and sent spray over the
altar and all garments and faces, the Frate knew that the demand for him
to enter the fire was at an end. But he knew too, with a certainty as
irresistible as the damp chill that had taken possession of his frame,
that the design of his enemies was fulfilled, and that his honour was
not saved. He knew that he should have to make his way to San Marco
again through the enraged crowd, and that the hearts of many friends who
would once have defended him with their lives would now be turned
against him.

When the rain had ceased he asked for a guard from the Signoria, and it
was given him. Had he said that he was willing to die for the work of
his life? Yes, and he had not spoken falsely. But to die in
dishonour--held up to scorn as a hypocrite and a false prophet? "O God!
_that_ is not martyrdom! It is the blotting out of a life that has been
a protest against wrong. Let me die because of the worth that is in me,
not because of my weakness."

The rain had ceased, and the light from the breaking clouds fell on
Savonarola as he left the Loggia in the midst of his guard, walking as
he had come, with the Sacrament in his hand. But there seemed no glory
in the light that fell on him now, no smile of heaven: it was only that
light which shines on, patiently and impartially, justifying or
condemning by simply showing all things in the slow history of their
ripening. He heard no blessing, no tones of pity, but only taunts and
threats. He knew this was a foretaste of coming bitterness; yet his
courage mounted under all moral attack, and he showed no sign of dismay.

"Well parried, Frate!" said Tito, as Savonarola descended the steps of
the Loggia. "But I fear your career at Florence is end