The bark had reached the galley. A ladder was lowered, and, aided by the
sailors, the party ascended the deck. The pilot gave the signal, the sails
were unfurled, the ship rocked for a moment as if courting the breeze,
and then it rapidly cleaved the waves.
The cannon again boomed from the Il Salvatore, and again the
acclamations of the crowd rent the air.
* * * * * The sounds had hardly died away when the spectators, as if impelled by one
thought, immediately retired, and made all speed to reach the central part
of the city.
The crowd which left the wharf so precipitately soon arrived at the grand
square, but they found it already occupied by so compact a mass of human
beings, that it was impossible for them to penetrate it. As far as the eye
could reach, there was a sea of heads; all the windows were crowded with
women and even children; the roofs swarmed with curious spectators; the
iron balustrades seemed to bend under the weight of the children who had
climbed upon them.
A solemn silence reigned in the midst of the vast multitude. Not a sound
was heard save the slow and mournful tolling of the death-bell, and at
intervals a scream so piercing, so frightful, that those who listened to
it turned pale and trembled. Every eye was fixed upon a particular spot,
whence clouds of smoke curled in the air, and from which escaped the cries
of distress.
What passed that day on the grand square of Antwerp is thus related by
Matthew Bandello, Bishop of Agen, who lived at that period, and who wrote
from the testimony of an eye-witness: * * * * * "Upon the appointed day, Simon Turchi was enclosed in the same chair and
driven on a wagon through the streets of Antwerp, the good priest
accompanying him and exhorting him. When they reached the grand square,
the chair was removed from the wagon. The executioners lighted a slow
fire, which they kept alive with wood, but in such a manner that the
flames should not rise too high, but sufficed to roast slowly the unhappy
Turchi. The priest remained as near to him as the heat permitted, and
frequently said to him: "'Simon, this is the hour for repentance!' "And Simon, as long as he could speak, replied: "'Yes, father.'"
* * * * * Simon Turchi evinced great repentance and much patience, and he accepted
with resignation the painful and infamous death to which he was condemned.
When it was certain that he was dead, his body, partially consumed, was
conveyed outside the city gates and attached to a stake by an iron chain.
The dagger with which he had stabbed Geronimo was thrust into his side.
The stake was so placed on the public road that it could be seen by all
who passed, in order that the punishment inflicted for murder might serve
as a warning to others, and prevent the commission of infamous crimes.