In the meantime parents and friends were bidding adieu.  Many tears were shed, and it was with tearful eyes that Mary Van de Werve received upon her brow her brothers’ kiss.

The Il Salvatore weighed anchor; the sails caught the wind, and the vessel floated majestically down the river with the tide.

Mr. Van de Werve, Deodati, and their two happy children, entered the bark which awaited them.  Petronilla seated herself beside her mistress.  They exchanged a last adieu, and the eight oars fell simultaneously in the water.  The bark, under the strokes of the robust oarsmen, cut the waves in a rapid course.

At this moment Geronimo’s eyes were filled with tears.  Lifting his eyes to heaven, he said: 

“Blessed be Thou, my God, for all the sufferings Thou hast sent me; blessed be Thou for Thy infinite goodness.  I thank Thee for the wife it has pleased Thee to give me; she will be my companion in my much loved country.  A thousand thanks for all Thy benefits!”

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: