same simple way. "Then it was clearly seen," says Burlamacchi, "that his enemies sought no other miracle than the death of Fra Girolamo." The Signory, however, in mere shame, could not refuse him the protection of their troops, and it was all that the five hundred soldiers of the republic, along with the band of armed Piagnoni, led by Salviati, could do, to convey the unoffending Dominicans, whose share in the disappointment of the people had been quite involuntary, back to their convent. The two captains arranged their men "come una luna" says Burlamacchi, in the form of a crescent — and putting Fra Girolamo and his followers in the centre, struggled back to San Marco, along the same streets which they had traversed in the morning in peaceful procession intoning their psalm. The Compagnacci, wild with the thought of having lost their opportunity, and the baser populace, maddened by the loss of the expected miracle, surged round the returning band like an angry sea. "Worst of men!" "Put down the sacrament," they cried, "now is the time;" and, with every kind of contumely and vain attempt at violence, this hoarse and frantic multitude accompanied the strange procession. Even Fra Girolamo's former friends joined the cry. Why had not he at that supreme moment proved his cause and glorified their belief in him forever and ever by himself going through the fire, which had all been wasted, and now would burn nobody? The very Piagnoni who loved him must have felt the chill of disappointment strike to their hearts; and a great revulsion of feeling, unreasonable, but not unnatural, moved Florence. Who can doubt that the very monks, who were but common men, like others, felt it as they streamed back crestfallen to the church in which the women still knelt, trembling to hear the hoarse insults of the advancing crowd? Savonarola had enough spirit left to make his way to the pulpit, where he told briefly the story of this sad and tedious day, ending, as he always did, by exhorting his hearers "to pray and to live a good life." Then he retired to the little cell in the corner, the four humble walls, without even one of Angelico's angels to glorify them, to which since then many a pilgrimage has been made. His life had been in danger often enough before, but never had the voice of the people swelled the cries of his enemies. He uttered no complaint to mortal man, but the prophet had fallen, fallen from his high estate! He who had once been king, and more than king, in Florence had been hooted through the streets, and preserved with difficulty from the rage of the disappointed mob. God whom he had invoked had not arisen, nor had his enemies been scattered. He had given the best years of his life to the city — his heart's love and restless labours; night and day, in health and sickness he had been at her call; he had been ready to supply her even with the wonder, the miraculous exhibition for which she craved; and for all this service she paid him with scorn, abuse, and insults. Perhaps — who can tell? — there mingled in this bitter disappointment an aching wonder whether it would have been better for him, the higher soul, to have taken upon him robust Domenico's part, and proved his faith by devoting himself all alone to the fire? When the more exalted way does not touch the common heart, sometimes the vulgar wonder does. Ought he, in spite of all the higher uses for him, in spite of the possible council on which his heart was set, and that reformation of the Church which had been before his eyes since first he entered the cloister, to have stepped aside from the loftier path, and taken upon himself that yeoman's service? Who could tell? Shut up alone in his little chamber, with the darkness falling round him, and chill discouragement and the disappointment of love in his heart, no doubt Savonarola on that night tasted all the bitterness of death.
THE DILEMMA.
CHAPTER I.
With the advent of the cold season Anglo-Indian society revives from its hot-weather torpor. Drills and field-days begin; regiments are on the move; civilians look up their camp-equipage and shooting-apparatus; officers rejoin from furlough; wives and children return from the hills; inspections, balls, and race-meetings come off. And never were the English in India more disposed to give themselves to the amusement of the passing hour than at the close of the year 1856, when no warning note had yet been given of the great catastrophe to come, and it seemed as if the end of Indian wars had been reached at last, and
