A mocking wave of laughter spread from rank to rank, for the jest sped home. The rough faces craning towards the Bishop’s tent were suffused and contorted with a savage zest.
“Make him kneel, by God!” cried a black-bearded Hercules with a flash of the sword.
The words echoed the will of the mob. Four men seized on Samson, bore him to his knees, threw him prostrate, so that his face was bathed in the trampled mire before the tent. Still his patience and his dignity withstood them. He knelt in silence, knowing that mere words were vain.
Jocelyn rose in his pontificals, stretched out a scornful hand towards the Heretic.
“Tell me, sirs, what shall be done with this poor anti-Christ?”
The men seemed to catch a wild and savage echo from the past.
“Crucify him! crucify him!” was the cry.
Jocelyn stood motionless a moment with folded hands, his eyes turned heavenwards as though in prayer. The crowd watched him, their glances wavering betwixt Samson and the Bishop’s face. It was a full minute before the churchman spoke again. Then the words fell like a sad condemnation wrung by duty from a merciful heart.
“God, Mother Virgin, and ye holy saints,” he said, “have pity, we beseech thee, on this sinner’s soul. In death and after death let him know well the God whom his proud lips have so blasphemed. Sons of the Church, I surrender this heretic into your hands.”
A great shout rolled up, billowing from the soldiery crowding from under the trees. The ranks swayed, broke, stood still a moment. Samson, with flashing eyes, and face with the calm of death thereon, had risen from his knees. He stood at his full height, as Paul before Festus, noble and undismayed. For one brief instant his voice rang through the woods.