CHAPTER XXVIII.
A life for a life.
The morning for the execution of Francis Junius dawned clear and bright. Hugo Berlaymont arose with the sun. He hardly knew what he was about to do, but he felt that God was leading him and would show him each step of the way.
Fritz was surprised at the interest which his young master evinced in the approaching execution. Hitherto the young lord had listened shrinkingly to any details of these affairs, and had even begged him to refrain from alluding to them in his presence. The sight of Hugo preparing to go to the market-place filled him with amazement and disgust.
“Really, I did not know before that my young master had a taste for blood. He has inherited it, I suppose. They say such things will crop out sooner or later.” Aloud he said, ”Is it wise for you to go and see the sentence executed, Master Hugo? The patrols are strengthened, and the officers fear a riot. It is no fit place for you.”
Hugo looked at his servant with eyes which seemed to see not. But the sound of a tolling bell in the distance awoke him from his dreams. Seizing his cap, he started on the run for the city. On sped the boy, as if on wings. He felt no fatigue. The thought uppermost in his mind was to get there before the prisoner arrived and somehow to rescue him. That noble man from whose lips he had heard the words of eternal life must not suffer death. His blood at least should not be upon his uncle’s head.
A large crowd had already gathered, when Hugo arrived on the scene. It was with great difficulty that he forced himself through the dense throng, and at last stood before the horrible instrument of death. He gave one shuddering glance at the stake, the chains and the faggots, and then awaited the approach of the prisoner. The patrol of Spanish soldiers about the stake was comparatively small. A large company had been drawn up on the outskirts of the crowd, but there were whispered words which reached Hugo’s ears to the effect that the military force about the prisoner was inadequate to secure him if the people could be aroused to action.
The sound of drums was heard. “He is coming! Junius is coming!” The voices in the crowd were awed into silence. A path was made by the soldiers through this seething mass of human beings, and the Huguenot preacher, securely bound and 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.
"Hold, men!" Page 210.
An electric current seemed to run through the hitherto passive spectators, and every eye was riveted on the daring speaker. He seemed to be little more than a boy in years, but ripened by religious enthusiasm into manhood. A half-suppressed sound swept over that dense throng – an ugly sound to hear from human throats, for it was the angry growl of the wild beast which lies sleeping but not dead in the breast of every man, civilize him as best you may.
At first the burghers as well as the soldiers were paralyzed by the sudden apparition. Then the people roused themselves, and cries of “Freedom for the Protestants! Down with the papist bloodhounds!” were heard. That young voice and inspired face had broken the spell, and as hot, passionate words poured from the lips of this apostle of freedom, every one hung spellbound on his words. Yet no one dared to act. Terror paralyzed every arm. It was only when, snatching a knife from a burgher’s belt, Hugo cut the cords which bound the prisoner, that the people responded. A mighty shout went up, “Saved! Saved!” as they seized Junius and passed him rapidly into the midst of the crowd. Once lost in that seething mass of humanity, there was little danger of recapture.
But what of Hugo?
The soldiers roused from their stupor. Not recognizing in the bold defender of the heretic preacher the timid, shrinking nephew of Baron Berlaymont, the captain of the guard shouted, “Ye fools! Will you let both the prisoner and his liberator escape? Shoot him down like a dog, boy though he is!”
The men hesitated to obey this command. Then one of them said, “It is Baron Berlaymont’s nephew. I dare not shoot the lad.”
“Is that so?” said the captain. “Hold, men! I retract my order! Hold, for Jesus’ sake! We will have the matter investigated. There must be some mistake.”
But this last command came too late. A shot rang out on the startled air, and Huge Berlaymont sank lifeless to the ground.
Truly was it said, “Greater love hath no man than this: that a man lay down his life for his friend.”