the
assailants, but to command all within the convent to lay down their
arms, all laymen to depart from it, and Savonarola himself to quit the
Florentine territory within twelve hours. Had Savonarola quitted the
convent then, he could hardly have escaped being torn to pieces; he was
willing to go, but his friends hindered him. It was felt to be a great
risk even for some laymen of high name to depart by the garden wall, but
among those who had chosen to do so was Francesco Valori, who hoped to
raise rescue from without.

And now when it was deep night--when the struggle could hardly have
lasted much longer, and the Compagnacci might soon have carried their
swords into the library, where Savonarola was praying with the Brethren
who had either not taken up arms or had laid them down at his command--
there came a second body of guards, commissioned by the Signoria to
demand the persons of Fra Girolamo and his two coadjutors, Fra Domenico
and Fra Salvestro.

Loud was the roar of triumphant hate when the light of lanterns showed
the Frate issuing from the door of the convent with a guard who promised
him no other safety than that of the prison. The struggle now was, who
should get first in the stream that rushed up the narrow street to see
the Prophet carried back in ignominy to the Piazza where he had braved
it yesterday--who should be in the best place for reaching his ear with
insult, nay, if possible, for smiting him and kicking him. This was not
difficult for some of the armed Compagnacci who were not prevented from
mixing themselves with the guards.

When Savonarola felt himself dragged and pushed along in the midst of
that hooting multitude; when lanterns were lifted to show him deriding
faces; when he felt himself spit upon, smitten and kicked with grossest
words of insult, it seemed to him that the worst bitterness of life was
past. If men judged him guilty, and were bent on having his blood, it
was only death that awaited him. But the worst drop of bitterness can
never be wrung on to our lips from without: the lowest depth of
resignation is not to be found in martyrdom; it is only to be found when
we have covered our heads in silence and felt, "I am not worthy to be a
martyr; the Truth shall prosper, but not by me."

But that brief imperfect triumph of insulting the Frate, who had soon
disappeared under the doorway of the Old Palace, was only like the taste
of blood to the tiger. Were there not the house