Certain pious goldsmiths in Lyons heard rumours of his wonderful work. They probably remembered that a certain William Farel had filled Dauphiny with his doctrine ten years before, and that Peter Sebville was not allowed to preach the Lenten Sermons in their city. They were ready to run risks and to make sacrifices for their faith, and they sent for Alexander to visit them. He went and entered their shops, talked of the new doctrines, and found several "poor men of Lyons" rich in faith. The conversation was pleasant, but he was not satisfied. He must teach more openly. He preached from house to house, then drew the people into larger assemblies. The good word grew. Opposition sprang up like tares to choke its growth. He exclaimed, “Oh that Lyons were a free city like Geneva."

Those who wished to hear the truth became more thirsty every day. They went to him and listened to his messages; they dragged him to their homes; they gave him more work than he could do. He asked Farel to send him help, but none came. The persecution was thought to be so fierce at Lyons that nobody dared face it. He worked on alone, in by-streets or in upper rooms. The priests and their pack were always on the watch ready to seize him. But as soon as his sermon was ended, his friends surrounded him, carried him away and hid him in safe retreats. But he could not remain silent. Wistfully putting out his head and looking round the house to see that no spy was near, he sallied forth, went to the other end of the city, and there preached with all his energy. Scarcely was his sermon finished when he was again taken and hid in some new retreat where he could not be found. "The evangelist was everywhere and nowhere." When the priests were looking for him in the southern suburbs, he was

preaching on the northern heights that overlook the city. Thus he was the invisible preacher, a mystery to the people, a marvel to the police.

He did still more: he visited the prisons. One day he heard that two men, well known in Geneva, had come to Lyons on business; the Genevan priests had informed against them as heretical Huguenots, and the bishop had thrown them into a dungeon. They were the energetic Baudichon de la Maison-Neuve and his friend Cologny. Alexander asked to see them; the gates opened; the strange preacher, who had baffled the police, was inside the Episcopal prison. He was in jeopardy every moment. Had any of the agents, who were searching for his track, recognized him, the gates would never have opened to him again, and his sudden disappearance would have been another of those mysteries which Rome has ever been skilful in preparing. He felt no fears. He spoke to the two Genevans a word in season;" he went to other prisoners with the heavenly consolations, and left the cells, no man laying hands on him.

The priests found out what a chance they had missed, but it was too late. He was off, they knew not where. They were "near bursting with vexation," and lamented with one another, saying,—“There is a Lutheran, who preaches and disturbs the people, collecting assemblies here and there in the city, whom we must catch, for he will spoil all the world, as everybody is running after him; and yet we cannot find him or know who he is." More diligently did they watch and search; but all was useless. Never had a preacher in such strange ways escaped so many snares. They began to say that the unknown man must be possessed of strange powers, by which he passed about invisible.

Easter came-the time when the reformers in Lyons were to boldly raise their banner. The goldsmiths were no longer content with secret meetings; they had made every preparation for a large assembly; the place was settled; they talked of little else, and notice was quietly given from house to house. The day brought the people, and the converted Dominican preached to a large audience. Whether in a church, or hall, or in the open air, the chronicle does not say. He moved and swayed his hearers, and “it might have been said that Christ rose again that Easter morn in Lyons, where he had been so long in the sepulchre." Spies were present; knowing glances were cast; the preacher was no longer invisible; the detectives saw him, heard him, studied his features, took note of his heresies, and hurried to report them to their superiors.

The gladness of many a heart found vent in many an humble dwelling. The cautious believers had a taste of the good word. They wanted a perpetual feast. They requested him to preach again on the morrow. He was ready, and he spoke to a larger audience than before. Eyes were fixed, ears attent, hearts open, and souls rejoicing. But the police were there, charged to seize the mysterious preacher. After a touching sermon his friends surrounded him to take him safely away. But the officers laid hands on him and took him to prison. He was tried and condemned to death. This cruel sentence caused many to mourn. They urged him to appeal. He did appeal; but the result was he was transferred to Paris. They remembered that Paul had once appealed to Cæsar, and thus he won over a great nation at Rome. Why might not Alexander do the same at Paris? He was led away by a captain and his company, who knew not the nature of the preacher's offence.

The captain was a worthy man. He rode beside Alexander,

and they soon were in conversation. The officer asked him why he was arrested. The cause was told. The captain was astonished; he became still more interested in the story of the mysterious preacher; new truths entered his mind, and he wished himself like the pious prisoner. "The captain was converted," says Froment, "while taking him to Paris." Alexander did not stop at this. He spoke to the guards, one by one, and several of them were won over to the gospel. They halted for the night at an inn, and there he found means to address a few good words to the servants and the heads of the household. This was repeated at every stopping-place, and he was happier in receiving the attentions of the villagers to the things he told them, than ever was prince in having suppers and ovations at the towns through which he passed. It was often whispered abroad that a strange captive was at the inn, and the people came to hear him. Now and then they brought the priest or the orator of the village to dispute with him; but he soon silenced them with arguments, and went on touching the hearts of his hearers. No mob could be raised, for a captain was in the crowd. Many left the inn, saying,-“Really, we never saw a man answer his adversaries better by Holy ScripThus Alexander, the captive, marched on as a conqueror, waited upon by increasing crowds. "Wonderful thing!" remarks Froment; "he was more useful at the inns and on the road than he had ever been before."

ture.

The Easter of 1534 had passed in Paris-a very happy one for Roussel and Courault, who were set at liberty; but a wretched one for Beda and his pack, who were thrust into prison in place of the preachers. All this was done by the king, in answer to Margaret's entreaties. All Paris had enough to talk about, along with the rumours from Lyons concerning an invisible preacher,

who kept the police in perplexity. But a change was suddenly given to the conversation. One day a man loaded with chains entered the capital. He was escorted by archers, who treated him with the greatest respect, even when leading him to the great prison. It was Alexander. The Dominicans remembered him as the friar, Le Croix, and they made the most noise. If Beda was taken from their party, they said, one should be taken from the other party to match him; and Francis I. let matters take their course. Alexander was brought before the court. "Name your accomplices," said the judges. He had none to name. The order was declared,-"Give him the boot."

The reader will remember William Budous, the illustrious scholar. He was at the trial; he saw the awful tortures applied until a limb was crushed. He heard the groan and the prayer, "O God! there is neither pity nor mercy in these men! May I find both in thee!"

"Keep on," said the chief of torture.

"Is there no Gamaliel here to moderate these cruelties?" asked the victim, as he turned on Budous a mild look of supplication. The scholar had been astonished at the patience of the sufferer.

"It is enough;" said the man of weighty words. "He has been tortured too much: you ought to be satisfied."

The inhuman work ceased. The poor man was lifted up a cripple, and carried to his dungeon. Not long after, amid great display, the sentence was pronounced, "Alexander Canus, of Evreux, in Normandy, you are condemned to be burnt alive." A flash of joy lit up his face.

"Truly, he is more joyful than ever before," said the spectators. The priests then came forward. They feared lest Alexander should preach the gospel even at that very hour.