Giovanni Pico smiled in a melancholy manner. “I wish to see the French,” he answered. “Seated here I can view them, where the street ends, passing—” He raised his pure face. “On such a day as this can you find time for me?” he murmured. Frà Girolamo’s eyes were flaming and troubled with many thoughts. “It was you who persuaded the Medici to summon me to Florence,” he said. “But for you I should never have been here, doing what I can to save the city. Judge, then, if I cannot find time to come and watch with you a little when you are sick.” “So sick!” smiled Giovanni. “I feel as if I was very old and had outlived all that I ever loved. What are my attainments now, or the praises I garnered? Where is the Prince who flattered me and the courtiers who bowed down? Gone, leaving a great emptiness; and you are the one person now who can bring me peace.” “Will you follow the Lord?” asked Frà Girolamo quickly. “I will. I will leave the world; though I am ‘lighter than vanity,’ I have the strength to do that. I will be one of your humble friars. Hark, what was that?” A sound of trumpets quivered in the gentle stillness, and the sick man leant forward, gripping the arms of his chair. “The French,” said Savonarola, and stepped out on to the balcony. “We have no fear of them; they come to treat with the Republic, not to conquer her, and Capponi is stronger than King Charles.” He might have added that he was himself stronger than either, and that when he had walked into the French camp to warn the King of the Lord’s wrath if he behaved dishonourably to Florence that monarch had cowered before him. Still, the fact was that King Charles had come as a conqueror into Italy, and that a foreign army was entering Florence, and this fact rankled in the mind of both Dominican and noble. Giovanni Pico rang the silver handbell on the table near him, and two pages came from the next apartment. The Prince bade them lift him up and carry him out on to the balcony, which was done; and he hung weak as a woman between them, yet managed with their help to reach the balcony, and supported against the stone balustrade to stand feebly in the sunshine. At the end of the street, a couple of houses away, was a good view of the Ponte Vecchio which spanned the Arno, and was to-day gaily decorated with flags and triumphal arches. A great crowd of people had already assembled, and were running to and fro, shouting and laughing and hustling against one another; some had already overflowed into this side-street, which a while before had been so quiet, while at every window heads appeared and figures began to show on the roofs. Most of the houses were hung with arras and flags. “We have no decoration,” said Pico della Mirandola. Savonarola gave him a quick look, then passed into the chamber; he seemed like a man exalted in his soul.