A murmur arose, the meaning of which was doubtful.
“Profanation!” cried the priests.
The procession moved toward the pile.
Meanwhile, Cinq-Mars, gliding behind a pillar, had eagerly watched all that passed; he saw with astonishment that the cross, in falling upon the steps, which were more exposed to the rain than the platform, smoked and made a noise like molten lead when thrown into water. While the public attention was elsewhere engaged, he advanced and touched it lightly with his bare hand, which was immediately scorched. Seized with indignation, with all the fury of a true heart, he took up the cross with the folds of his cloak, stepped up to Laubardemont, and, striking him with it on the forehead, cried:
“Villain, I brand thee with the mark of this red-hot iron!”
The crowd heard these words and rushed forward.
“Arrest this madman!” cried the unworthy magistrate.
He was himself seized by the hands of men who cried, “Justice! justice, in the name of the King!”
“We are lost!” said Lactantius; “to the pile, to the pile!”
The Penitents dragged Urbain toward the Place, while the judges and archers reentered the church, struggling with the furious citizens; the executioner, having no time to tie up the victim, hastened to lay him on the wood, and to set fire to it. But the rain still fell in torrents, and each piece of wood had no sooner caught the flame than it became extinguished. In vain did Lactantius and the other canons themselves seek to stir up the fire; nothing could overcome the water which fell from heaven.