gagged, made his appearance. He looked worn and exhausted. Argument and even torture had been employed to make him recant, but his eyes glowed with the same old fire. Just now they were full of compassion as they rested on the grief-stricken multitude. Never again would they hear the old keen satire, the profound logic, the overwhelming tide of eloquence. These great literary and intellectual gifts were about to be hushed forever,
By the side of Junius walked no less a personage than Monseigneur Ryder, who had exerted every art to try and bring this notorious heretic into the fold of the Church. He had been defeated, and a look of hatred gleamed in his eyes. He read the warrant, and then delivered the preacher over to the secular arm for punishment. The crowd surged back and forth in impotent rage and grief.
At that moment a youthful figure sprang forward and stood beside the condemned man.
“Men of Brussels,” cried a passionate voice, “if you be men in truth, help to liberate this godly man!”
The clear young voice rang out like a trumpet-call. Every eye was fastened on the beautiful face, which was aglow with a light not of earth. A ray of sunshine touched the bronze rings that curled over his fair brow, and his clear eyes gazed indignantly upon the silent, submissive crowd.
