He sank into it in his old attitude–his hands on the arms, his head resting against the back; only now his eyes were closed, and the steady sound of the passing army was in his ears. Girolamo Savonarola stood in the corner of the chamber; he also was listening to the sounds of the French entering Florence, and though he stood very still, with his hands on his breast, there was something triumphant in his face. “Frà Girolamo,” said Giovanni under his breath, “if I–should not live to enter your order, will you bury me in the habit of it?” The Friar made no answer to this; he moved nearer the window and remarked, “Angelo Poliziano died this morning.” “Ah!” A half-breath parted the young man’s full, pale lips, and a deeper look of sadness troubled the smooth calm of his gentle features. Poliziano was a name nearly as brilliant as his own, a man who had also been present at il Magnifico’s death-bed. It seemed as if all the friends of the old dynasty were following that dynasty’s fate. “No one to-day will remember Poliziano,” said Giovanni, following out his thoughts; “and no one would remember Pico–if I were to die to-day.” He added instantly, turning his head towards the Friar, “Save only you, Frà Girolamo.” Savonarola approached his chair and looked down at him with deep, sparkling eyes. “Are you very ill?” he asked earnestly. The young Prince smiled sweetly up at him. “I am dying,” he said. Frà Girolamo was startled; he lifted his right hand and let it fall on his heart. “I received the viaticum this morning,” said Pico della Mirandola. “I have been surprised by death … too soon.… I would have died a Friar, and I would have died before I heard yonder army crossing the Arno.” Savonarola still did not speak; his dark face was stained by a dusky flush of pain. He loved this beautiful young man who was so devoted and humble a follower of his doctrines–this prince whom neither great birth, great gifts, great fortune nor great praise had spoiled, and he hoped that he would not die. It was a marvellous thing if he, broken and ill, was to be spared and this youth to be taken in the flower of his days. “Oh, what have I done with my life!” whispered Giovanni, and the tears sparkled in his long clear eyes. “Are you at peace?” asked the Friar abruptly. “Nay, not quite at peace, for I love the things of this world and cannot wholly forget them, even while every breath I draw brings me nearer the Judgment of God.” The Friar looked at him earnestly. “Why should you die, Giovanni? I think you will live.” “No; death entered my chamber this morning and is here now, waiting his time.” “Should I bring your friends or your physician?” “Let me die alone,” answered Giovanni. “I have been too much in crowds all my life.” “You have no great sins to answer for,” returned the Friar. “You need not be afraid to appear before God, Conte.” “I am not afraid,” replied the young man faintly. “But I am very loth to leave the world, and that troubles me.”