or rending their hearts and not
their rulers that day.

In the afternoon the show of a trial-at-law was made. The depositions of
the lackey, of Rocca Rossa, of the finders of the murdered, and the
hunters for the murderers, were taken and recorded by the _Podesta_ in
the presence of the council. After that the six unknown dastards were
publicly condemned to death by the civil power from the loggia of the
palace, and as publicly excommunicated by the bishop from the steps of
the cathedral. It was felt on all hands that on this occasion the bishop
had wielded the heavier arm: at least, in the absence of the criminals,
he had brought his chances level. But what gave him most weight was that
which had made the testimony of Francesco and the lackey overshadow
every event of a week full of events--the interposition of Madonna of
the Peach-Tree. Not a soul in the city was left to doubt; it might be
said that not a soul was left to save, if faith can save you. The
churches were packed from dawn to dark, not an altar in a chapel went
bare of a mass. There were not enough of them. Altars were set up in the
squares, and the street-ends blocked by a kneeling, bowing, weeping,
adoring crowd. The bishop spoke the common mind when at Vespers that
night he gave notice that he should go forthwith to purge the Carmelite
church of the stain upon it, "at the request of my reverend brother the
Prior Provincial of the Order." He set out then and there in solemn
procession of the whole cathedral chapter. Rank formed on rank behind
him till his ordered following trailed across Verona like a host.

Now, although, as it has been said, and truly said, there was no soul in
the city who doubted, there was one soul very much in doubt. That was
Fra Battista's. The offer of purgation had come in frenzy from the lips
of his prior; by its acceptance Fra Battista saw himself driven to one
of two courses. He must destroy his reputation for obedience to
heavenly commands which it had been rank heresy in him to overlook, or
that other reputation he had won, for being a desperate lover, upon
which he shrewdly surmised some of his fame depended. He may have been
right about that--I am not here to defend him. If he admitted his guilt,
he would be unfrocked; he would show like a chanticleer stripped of his
hackles before his hens. If he denied it, he could never preach to the
women again. Admit it? Be degraded? Eh, that would be a nasty shift!
Deny it? Oh, pre