In the morning of the 22nd of April, 1529,[116] the officers of parliament entered the gloomy cell where Berquin was confined. The pious disciple, on the point of offering up his life voluntarily for the name of Jesus Christ, was absorbed in prayer; he had long sought for God and had found him; the Lord was near him, and peace filled his soul. Having God for his father, he knew that nothing would be wanting to him in that last hour when everything else was to fail him: he saw a triumph in reproach, a deliverance in death. At the sight of the officers of the court, some of whom appeared embarrassed, Berquin understood what they wanted. He was ready; he rose calm and firm, and followed them. The officers handed him over to the lieutenant-criminal and his sergeants, who were to carry out the sentence. Meanwhile several companies of archers and bowmen were drawn up in front of the Conciergerie. These armed men were not alone around the prison. The news had spread far and wide that a gentleman of the court, a friend of Erasmus and of the Queen of Navarre, was about to be put to death; and accordingly there was a great commotion in the capital. A crowd of common people, citizens, priests and monks, with a few gentlemen and friends of the condemned noble, waited, some with anger, others with curiosity, and others with anguish, for the moment when he would appear. Budæus was not there; he had not the courage to be present at the punishment. Margaret, who was at St. Germain, could almost see the flames of the burning pile from the terrace of the château. When the clock struck twelve, the escort began to move. At its head was the grand penitentiary Merlin; then followed the archers and bowmen, and after them the officers of justice and more armed men. In the middle of the escort was the prisoner. A wretched tumbrel was bearing him slowly to punishment. He wore a cloak of velvet, a doublet of satin and damask, and golden hose, says the Bourgeois of Paris, who probably saw him pass.[117] The King of heaven having invited him to the wedding, Berquin had joyfully put on his finest clothes. 'Alas!' said many as they saw him, 'he is of noble lineage, a very great scholar, expert and quick in learning ... and yet he has gone out of his mind!' There was nothing in the looks or gestures of the reformer which indicated the least confusion or pride. He neither braved nor feared death: he approached it with tranquillity, meekness, and hope, as if entering the gates of heaven. Men saw peace unchangeable written on his face. Montius, a friend of Erasmus, who had desired to accompany this pious man even to the stake, said in the highest admiration: 'There was in him none of that boldness, of that hardened air which men led to death often assume; the calmness of a good conscience was visible in every feature.'—'He looks,' said other spectators, 'as if he were in God's house meditating upon heavenly things.'[118] [Sidenote: BERQUIN'S MARTYRDOM.]