Scene--an upper room above a warehouse overlooking the market-placeof Leyden, a room with small windows and approached by two staircases;time, a summer twilight. The faint light which penetrated into thischamber through the unshuttered windows, for to curtain them would havebeen to excite suspicion, showed that about twenty people were gatheredthere, among whom were one or two women. For the most part they were menof the better class, middle-aged burghers of sober mien, some of whomstood about in knots, while others were seated upon stools and benches.At the end of the room addressing them was a man well on in middle life,with grizzled hair and beard, small and somewhat mean of stature, yetone through whose poor exterior goodness seemed to flow like lightthrough some rough casement of horn. This was Jan Arentz, the famouspreacher, by trade a basket-maker, a man who showed himself steadfastto the New Religion through all afflictions, and who was gifted with aspirit which could remain unmoved amidst the horrors of perhaps the mostterrible persecution that Christians have suffered since the days ofthe Roman Emperors. He was preaching now and these people were hiscongregation.
"I come not to bring peace but a sword," was his text, and certainlythis night it was most appropriate and one easy of illustration. Forthere, on the very market-place beneath them, guarded by soldiers andsurrounded with the rabble of the city, two members of his flock, menwho a fortnight before had worshipped in that same room, at this momentwere undergoing martyrdom by fire!
Arentz preached patience and fortitude. He went back into recent historyand told his hearers how he himself had passed a hundred dangers; how hehad been hunted like a wolf, how he had been tried, how he had escapedfrom prisons and from the swords of soldiers, even as St. Paul had donebefore him, and how yet he lived to minister to them this night. Hetold them that they must have no fear, that they must go on quite happy,quite confident, taking what it pleased God to send them, feeling thatit would all be for the best; yes, that even the worst would be for thebest. What was the worst? Some hours of torment and death. And what laybeyond the death? Ah! let them think of that. The whole world was but abrief and varying shadow, what did it matter how or when they walkedout of that shadow into the perfect light? The sky was very black, butbehind it the sun shone. They must look forward with the eye of faith;perhaps the sufferings of the present generation were part of the schemeof things; perhaps from the earth which they watered with their bloodwould spring the flower of freedom, that glorious freedom in whose dayall men would be able to worship their Creator responsible only to theBible law and their own conscience, not to the dogmas or doctrines ofother men.
As Arentz spoke thus, eloquently, sweetly, spoke like one inspired, thetwilight deepened and the flare of those sacrificial fires flickered onthe window pane, and the mixed murmurs of the crowd of witnesses brokeupon his listeners' ears. The preacher paused and looked down upon thedreadful scene below, for from where he stood he could behold it all.
"Mark is dead," he said, "and our dear brother, Andreas Jansen, isdying; the executioners heap the faggots round him. You think it cruel,you think it piteous, but I say to you, No. I say that it is a holyand a glorious sight, for we witness the passing of souls to bliss.Brethren, let us pray for him who leaves us, and for ourselves who staybehind. Yes, and let us pray for those who slay him that know not whatthey do. We watch his sufferings, but I tell you that Christ his Lordwatches also; Christ who hung upon the Cross, the victim of such men asthese. He stands with him in the fire, His hand compasses him, His voicesupports him. Brethren, let us pray."
Then at his bidding every member of that little congregation knelt inprayer for the passing spirit of Andreas Jansen.
Again Arentz looked through the window.
"He dies!" he cried; "a soldier has thrust him through with a pike inmercy, his head falls forward. Oh! God, if it be Thy will, grant to us asign."
Some strange breath passed through that upper chamber, a cold breathwhich blew upon the brows of the worshippers and stirred their hair,bringing with it a sense of the presence of Andreas Jansen, the martyr.Then, there upon the wall opposite to the window, at the very spot wheretheir brother and companion, Andreas, saint and martyr, was wont tokneel, appeared the sign, or what they took to be a sign. Yes, thereupon the whitewashed wall, reflected, mayhap, from the fires below, andshowing clearly in the darkened room, shone the vision of a fiery cross.For a second it was seen. Then it was gone, but to every soul inthis room the vision of that cross had brought its message; to each aseparate message, an individual inspiration, for in the light of it theyread strange lessons of life and death. The cross vanished and there wassilence.
"Brethren," said the voice of Arentz, speaking in the darkness, "youhave seen. Through the fire and through the shadow, follow the Cross andfear not."
Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch Page 20