Giovanni Pico rang the silver handbell on the table near him, and two pages came from the next apartment. The Prince bade them lift him up and carry him out on to the balcony, which was done; and he hung weak as a woman between them, yet managed with their help to reach the balcony, and supported against the stone balustrade to stand feebly in the sunshine.
At the end of the street, a couple of houses away, was a good view of the Ponte Vecchio which spanned the Arno, and was to-day gaily decorated with flags and triumphal arches.
A great crowd of people had already assembled, and were running to and fro, shouting and laughing and hustling against one another; some had already overflowed into this side-street, which a while before had been so quiet, while at every window heads appeared and figures began to show on the roofs. Most of the houses were hung with arras and flags.
“We have no decoration,” said Pico della Mirandola.
Savonarola gave him a quick look, then passed into the chamber; he seemed like a man exalted in his soul.
But the friend of Lorenzo dei Medici remained on the balcony, supported by his pages and leaning on the stone that was pale gold in the winter sun.
A huge noise encroached on the lesser noises of the crowd–a noise like the din of an enormous fair, beating of drums, blowing pipes, and the shriek of trumpets, the clatter of arms and the sound of horses’ hoofs and horses’ harness as they jostled together.
A varie-coloured throng came jostling over the bridge; the foremost, before whom a little space was with some difficulty cleared, was mounted on a tall and handsome charger, over which a gorgeous baldaquin was upheld.
Giovanni noticed that this man was riding with his lance levelled–the sign of a conqueror; and as he hesitated, not knowing which way to turn, the Florentine had a good view of his person, which was extraordinarily misshapen.