He wore the habit of the Friars of St. Mark, a loose coarse brown robe and a hood and shoulder-piece in one that fitted closely round his face and neck. He was of the middle height, stooping a little and gaunt; his features were harsh and rudely modelled, his complexion dark and sickly, cheeks and forehead fined with deep furrows, his nose a heavy aquiline, his eyes large, expressive and of a sparkling grey tint; his thick but mobile lips were at that moment compressed in a firmness that had the sweetness of true strength. Truly that expression of noble gentleness illumined the whole ungainly countenance, softened the unlovely lines and gave divine dignity to the common features. As he stood so, motionless, the monks began to sing psalms and the crowd went to their knees on the paving stones of the great Piazza, their coloured garments shifting and changing in light and shade as they moved. When the men’s voices sank on the last pulse of the holy music that rose like incense on the clear thin air, Frà Girolamo took the Host, and raising it with his right hand lifted the left in blessing of the kneeling press of worshippers. The great and stately door of the church was a fitting background for the frail figure holding the Host of God which gleamed in the lucid rays of the sun that struck straight from heaven on it, like a mystical jewel fed with inner light. Frà Girolamo flashed his eyes over the crowd, among whom he could distinguish several of the Compagnacci, adherents of the vanished Medici, and many of the Arrabbiati, his bitter foes who had threatened to revive the old orgies of the Medicean rule, the pagan and splendid carnival of Lorenzo, called the Magnificent, now for years since dead in sin. A strong excitement shook the slender frame of the Friar; his countenance became blanched with the intense emotion that inspired him. In a trembling but powerful voice he cried– “O Lord, if my deeds be not sincere, if my words be not inspired by Thee, strike me dead on the instant.” The Host was lowered and the people rose from their knees; but the Friar remained in the wooden pulpit. Now the crowd drew back and made way for a strange procession that was wending across the Piazza. It was headed by four fair-headed youths attired in white, who bore between them a marble figure of the Infant Christ, pointing with one hand to a wreath of thorns and raising the other in benediction; this was the work of Donato di Bardi, a famous sculptor. After came a company also in white and carrying in their hands red crosses, singing the lauds and hymns of Girolamo Benivieni in sweet and eager voices. Behind them followed men and women soberly dressed who collected from the crowd, holding out on silver trays the alms they received; they were begging on behalf of the Monte di Pietà, and had already amassed more gold than had been given in charity in Florence during a year of the old Medicean order.