A light of enthusiasm and joy sprang into the Friar’s eyes. He clasped his thin, nervous hands convulsively together. “Could I but have brought you within the walls of St. Mark’s–into that great peace where the spirit of St. Antonine still dwells, where it is indeed like Heaven for the great company of angels painted by Frà Beato Angelico that beam from the walls!” “Alas!” said the Conte della Mirandola; “such joy is not for me!” Clouds had crept over the perfect blue; faint silver veils they were, and a pale rain descended and a low wind rose, stirring the boughs of the cypresses and the arras hanging before the houses. Still could be heard the shouting, the tramp, the jostle of arms, the running to and fro, the tap of the drums, the whistle of the pipes. And Pico della Mirandola could not close his ears to these sounds; he was thinking more of Florence than of God, and because of this the tears ran down his cheeks. The Friar seemed to guess his thoughts. “Florence is in God’s hands, and I am his instrument to preserve her people.” Giovanni took his eyes from the rain and the cypresses and the soft grey sky, and looked at the Friar. “Can you preserve Florence against a Borgia Pope and a French Conqueror?” he whispered. “As God’s lieutenant, I can,” said Frà Girolamo in a firm and splendid voice. Giovanni closed his eyes. “I must forget Florence,” he answered. “I must forget the world.” He drew the yellow intaglio from his finger and, still with his eyes closed, dropped it on the floor; it rolled away against the wall. With slow movements he unwound the chain from his neck and cast that down too. Then he opened his eyes. “Bury me in your holy and humble habit,” he asked. “I have longed to wear it in life, and in death maybe I might be thought not unworthy–and lay me in St. Mark’s Church.” “Giovanni, both these things will I do–yet I still think that you will not die.” The Prince shook his head and called one of his pages, who came with his eyes red from weeping for this sickness of his master. And Giovanni bade the boy take away the figure of Tanagra and all the heathen vanities of the room and bring him the crucifix above the bed. Sadly the youth obeyed, and when he brought the crucifix Giovanni clasped it gladly in his two slim white hands and pressed it to his heart, murmuring some prayers in his throat. The rain drifted in through the open window, a slight, sweet spray, and the perfumes of the chamber were lost in the freshness of it. Giovanni gazed at the lightly blowing clouds and the dark tops of the cypresses stirring against them, and he thought that these trees were like souls–rooted to the earth, yet striving to be free, bending and moaning in their efforts heavenwards. “Will you not rest in your bed?” asked Frà Girolamo, for he saw a slow pallor coming over the young man’s face. “No,” said Giovanni; “but out of your great goodness, pray for me now.”