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He made his appeal to the rulers of the world, and declared that Alexander was no Pope, because he had deliberately bought his way to the Vatican.

There was now a brief struggle between the authorities of the Pope and those of Florence as to who should have the man. The Pope wanted him to be secretly captured and taken to Rome for trial. Alexander feared the publicity that Florence would give to the matter–he knew a shorter way.

But Florence stood firm. Savonarola had now retired to Saint Mark’s and his followers barricaded the position. The man might have escaped, and the authorities hoped he would, but there he remained, holding the place, and daily preaching to the faithful few who stood by him.

Finally the walls were stormed, and police, soldiers and populace overran the monastery. Savonarola remained passive, and he even reproved several of the monks who, armed with clubs, made stout resistance.

The warrants for arrest called only for Fra Girolamo, Fra Domenico and Fra Silvestro–these last being his most faithful disciples, preaching often in his pulpit and echoing his words.

The prisoners were bound and hurried through the streets toward the Piazza Signoria. The soldiers made a guard of spears and shields around them, but this did not prevent their being pelted with mud and stones.

They were lodged in separate cells, in the prison portion of the Palazzo Vecchio, and each was importuned to recant the charges made against the Pope and the Medici. All refused, even when told that the others had recanted.

Savonarola’s judges were chosen from among his most bitter foes. He was brought before them, and ordered to take back his accusations.

He remained silent.

Threatened, he answered in parable.

He was then taken to the torture-cell, stripped of all clothing, and a thin, strong rope passed under his arms. He was suddenly drawn up, and dropped.

This was repeated until the cord around the man’s body cut the skin and his form was covered with blood.

The physically sensitive nature of the man gave way and he recanted.

Being taken to his cell he repeated all he had said against the Pope, and called aloud, “Lord Jesus, pardon me that I forsook thy truth–it was the torture–I now repeat all I ever said from my pulpit–Lord Jesus, pardon!”

Again he was taken to the torture-chamber and all was gone over as before.

He and his two companions were now formally condemned to death and their day of execution set.

To know the worst is peace–it is uncertainty that kills.

A great calm came over Savonarola–he saw the gates of Heaven opening for him. He was able now to sleep and eat. The great brown eyes beamed with love and benediction, and his hands were raised only in blessing to friend and foe alike.

The day of execution came, and the Piazza Signoria was filled with a vast concourse of people. Every spare foot of space was taken. Platforms had been erected and seats sold for fabulous prices. Every window was filled with faces.

An elevated walk had been built out from the second story of the prison to the executioner’s platform. From this high scaffold rose a great cross with ropes and chains dangling from the arms. Below were piled high heaps of fagots, saturated with oil.

There was a wild exultant yell from the enemies of the men on their appearance, but others of their adversaries appeared dazed at their success, and it seemed for a few moments as if pity would take the place of hate, and the mob would demand the release of the men.

The prisoners walked firmly and conversed in undertone, encouraging each other to stand firm. Each held a crucifix and pressed it to his lips, repeating the creed. Halfway across to the gibbet, they were stopped, the crucifixes torn from their hands, and their priestly robes stripped from them. There they stood, clad only in scant underclothes, in sight of the mob that seethed and mocked. Sharp sticks were thrust up between the crevices of the board walk, so blood streamed from their bare feet.

Having advanced so that they stood beneath the gibbet, their priestly robes were again thrown over them, and once more torn off by a bishop who repeated the words, “Thus do I sever you from the Church Militant and the Church Triumphant!”

“Not the Church Triumphant!” answered Savonarola in a loud voice. “You can not do that.”

In order to prolong the torture of Savonarola, his companions were hanged first, before his eyes.

When his turn came he stepped lightly to his place between the dead and swinging bodies of his brethren. As the executioner was adjusting the cord about his neck, his great tender eyes were raised to heaven and his lips moved in prayer as the noose tightened.

The chains were quickly fastened about the bodies to hold them in place, and scarcely had the executioner upon the platform slid down the ladders, than the waiting torches below fired the pile and the flames shot heavenward and licked the great cross where the three bodies swayed.

The smoke soon covered them from view.

Then suddenly there came a gust of wind that parted the smoke and flames, and the staring mob, now silent, saw that the fire had burned the thongs that bound the arms of Savonarola. One hand was uplifted in blessing and benediction.

So died Savonarola.