Now, as he gazed down into the empty street, he wished that he had not so long delayed; he wished that he was, even now, in the dark robe of a brother of St. Mark, lying in his cell, face downwards, before the crucifix, praying for mercy for his soul and for those long years he had filled with worldly learning and in following the vain shadows of heathen philosophy.
He moved his fair head and sighed and lifted his right hand vaguely and looked at it. On the second finger was a yellow intaglio of a bull wreathed with flowers. It gave him pleasure even now in the midst of his thoughts of God. He watched the liquid light slip in and out of it in glints of amber and gold, and in looking at the exquisite workmanship and reflecting that there was not such another in the world, he forgot the convent of St. Mark in his joy in the heathen jewel.
The red hanging was lifted from the doorway and a dark figure entered–a monk in a russet gown, with a thin face and ardent eyes.
The young Prince looked up.
“Frà Girolamo!”
Savonarola approached him, looked at him with some tenderness in his harsh features.
“Why are you at the window?” he asked.
Giovanni Pico smiled in a melancholy manner. “I wish to see the French,” he answered. “Seated here I can view them, where the street ends, passing—”
He raised his pure face.