Arentz preached patience and fortitude.  He went back into recent history and told his hearers how he himself had passed a hundred dangers; how he had been hunted like a wolf, how he had been tried, how he had escaped from prisons and from the swords of soldiers, even as St. Paul had done before him, and how yet he lived to minister to them this night.  He told them that they must have no fear, that they must go on quite happy, quite confident, taking what it pleased God to send them, feeling that it would all be for the best; yes, that even the worst would be for the best.  What was the worst?  Some hours of torment and death.  And what lay beyond the death?  Ah! let them think of that.  The whole world was but a brief and varying shadow, what did it matter how or when they walked out of that shadow into the perfect light?  The sky was very black, but behind it the sun shone.  They must look forward with the eye of faith; perhaps the sufferings of the present generation were part of the scheme of things; perhaps from the earth which they watered with their blood would spring the flower of freedom, that glorious freedom in whose day all men would be able to worship their Creator responsible only to the Bible law and their own conscience, not to the dogmas or doctrines of other men.

As Arentz spoke thus, eloquently, sweetly, spoke like one inspired, the twilight deepened and the flare of those sacrificial fires flickered on the window pane, and the mixed murmurs of the crowd of witnesses broke upon his listeners’ ears.  The preacher paused and looked down upon the dreadful scene below, for from where he stood he could behold it all.

“Mark is dead,” he said, “and our dear brother, Andreas Jansen, is dying; the executioners heap the faggots round him.  You think it cruel, you think it piteous, but I say to you, No.  I say that it is a holy and a glorious sight, for we witness the passing of souls to bliss.  Brethren, let us pray for him who leaves us, and for ourselves who stay behind.  Yes, and let us pray for those who slay him that know not what they do.  We watch his sufferings, but I tell you that Christ his Lord watches also; Christ who hung upon the Cross, the victim of such men as these.  He stands with him in the fire, His hand compasses him, His voice supports him.  Brethren, let us pray.”

Then at his bidding every member of that little congregation knelt in prayer for the passing spirit of Andreas Jansen.

Again Arentz looked through the window.

“He dies!” he cried; “a soldier has thrust him through with a pike in mercy, his head falls forward.  Oh!  God, if it be Thy will, grant to us a sign.”