"And there's Arnolfo Battista," said a third;—"he went out to try to speak to them, and they have killed him,—cut him down with their sabres."
"Hurry! hurry! barricade the door! arm yourselves!" was the cry from other voices.
"Shall we fight, father? shall we defend ourselves?" cried others, as the monks pressed around their Superior.
When the crowd first burst into the room, the face of the Superior flushed, and there was a slight movement of surprise; then he seemed to recollect himself, and murmuring, "I expected this, but not so soon," appeared lost in mental prayer. To the agitated inquiries of his flock, he answered,—"No, brothers; the weapons of monks must be spiritual, not carnal." Then lifting on high a crucifix, he said,—"Come with me, and let us walk in solemn procession to the altar, singing the praises of our God."
The monks, with the instinctive habit of obedience, fell into procession behind their leader, whose voice, clear and strong, was heard raising the Psalm, "Quare fremunt gentes":—
"Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?
"The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the Lord, and against his Anointed, saying,
"'Let us break their bands asunder, and cast away their cords from us.'
"He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh.: the Lord shall have them in derision."
As one voice after another took up the chant, the solemn enthusiasm rose and deepened, and all present, whether ecclesiastics or laymen, fell into the procession and joined in the anthem. Amid the wild uproar, the din and clatter of axes, the thunders of heavy battering-implements on the stone walls and portals, came this long-drawn solemn wave of sound, rising and falling,—now drowned in the savage clamors of the mob, and now bursting out clear and full like the voices of God's chosen amid the confusion and struggles of all the generations of this mortal life.