Then one of them fetched a psalter, illuminated in colour and gold, with knobs of turkis on the cover, and put that in his right hand; and the other brought a casket showing a painting of Venus and Adonis on the lid and opened it, and from it took long locks of fair and dark hair that had once belonged to all the women Giovanni Pico had loved. This casket he laid on the bed, and Giovanni looked at it; and God receded very far away again. “What are those bells?” he asked. “King Charles is being received in the Duomo by the Signorie, my lord.” Pico della Mirandola moved his pale lips slowly. “I hope Piero Capponi will know how to–deal with–these French–I hope–Frà Girolamo will save Florence–I wish Lorenzo had lived—” He lifted the yellow ring to his cheek and fell, as they thought, asleep. But when Frà Girolamo returned with the humble robe of a brother of St. Mark’s, Pico della Mirandola was dead amid his vanities, with the rare intaglio on his finger. And Savonarola used no word of reproach, but permitted him to be buried in the friar’s habit and in the Church of St. Mark. THE END PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of God's Playthings, by Marjorie Bowen