In every quarter of Geneva men’s eyes were fixed on the Château de l’Ile. Its old gates fell back, the guards marched out first, the provost came next, followed by the headsman holding Berthelier. The martyr’s countenance proclaimed the greatness of his soul. There was and still is, between the castle and the river, a narrow space so protected by the Rhone and the fortress, that fifty men could hold it against all the inhabitants of Geneva. The prince-bishop, so learned in the art of tyranny, was not ignorant that if the victim to be sacrificed is loved by the people, the death-blow must be given in prison, in a court-yard, on a narrow beach, or in a castle moat. Berthelier having advanced a few steps found himself between the château and the river. ‘Say thy prayers,’ said the provost. The hero knew he was about to be murdered: he made ‘a short prayer,’ and, rising from his knees, was preparing ‘to utter a few words before dying,’ to give a last testimony to the liberties of Geneva; but the provost would not permit him. Turning to the executioner, he said: ‘Make haste with your work.’--‘Kneel down,’ said the man to his victim. Then Berthelier, whether he desired to express his sorrow at the gloomy future of his fellow-citizens, or was moved at seeing himself sacrificed and none of his friends appearing to defend him, exclaimed as he fell on his knees: ‘Ah!... Messieurs of Geneva’ .... It was all he said; he had no sooner uttered the words ‘than the executioner cut off his head: it was the 23rd of August, 1519.’ The bishop had managed matters well. That cruel man was more like the wild beast that devours the flock than the shepherd who protects them; he had shown himself truly _tremendæ velocitatis animal_, ‘an animal of terrible swiftness,’ as Pliny says of the tiger; but unlike that animal, he was cowardly as well as cruel. The Genevans, whose father he should have been, turned from him with horror, and the avenging angel of the innocent prepared to visit him with a terrible retribution at his death. Vainly would the waters of the Rhone flow for ages over this narrow space--there are stains of blood that no waters can ever wash out.[271]