And Savonarola knelt down and began to recite the penitential psalms in a low but strong voice. And Giovanni Pico listened, but there was a languor and a weakness in his heart and in his mind, and he began to think of spring flowers, white and scented; of long galleries, cool with shade, looking into square courtyards full of orange trees with a fountain in the centre; of heathen statues, broken and white against a background of ilex and laurel; of the sea heated by the sun and sparkling with violet and blue; of engraved gems, yellow, tawny and orange; of alabaster heads of women, tinted faintly on the cheeks and lips and gilded in the hair-net. And none of these things were of Heaven, yet they occupied the whole of Giovanni Pico’s thoughts, and he forgot the crucifix in his slack hands; he forgot the Friar reciting the psalms; he forgot the army passing without, and his spirit turned backwards to the delights of dead springs and summers. The Friar continued praying. Giovanni closed his eyes; he thought that he was walking by a fountain round which little close violets grew beneath their leaves, and that a woman in a long green gown was plucking these violets and giving them to him till his hands were over-full, and the little flowers fell down in a shower on the surface of the water of the fountain and floated there above the reflection of the blue sky; and he stretched out his hands to regain them, and as he did so he noticed that his hands were bare, and with a cry he started up, crying, “Where is my intaglio ring?” And the crucifix fell to the floor. Frà Girolamo picked up the holy symbol, and his glance was red with bitter fire. “What are your thoughts in this hour?” he cried. “Do you still dream of the lusts and pleasures of the world?” Giovanni bent his head and wept. “Speak to me of God,” he whispered. “I am a great sinner.” Savonarola placed the crucifix again in his hands, and now he grasped it so hard that the sharp edges of it entered his flesh, and at the pain he groaned, and was glad, for he felt his mind quickened with thoughts of God. Resolutely he drove all soft and beautiful images from him–all memories, all philosophies and learning, and they faded like snow before fire in front of the awful visage of God that began to rise slowly and terribly before Giovanni Pico. The world turned the colour of dark smoke, and One with a long spear of living flame strode across the Heavens calling Judgment, and there was a drum beating and a trumpet calling. He thought that he heard the voice of Lorenzo whispering in Hell, and he tried to lift his head to look for his friend, but it was so heavy that it would not move, and he cried out– “There is a great change in him,” said Frà Girolamo, rising from his knees. “Surely he is dying.”