He wore black velvet, and sat hunched together on the saddle, his body being prodigiously small, his legs long and twisted, his feet huge and deformed. A rich and cumbersome mantle of cloth of gold hung from his shoulders, emphasizing the meanness of his presence; his head was huge and lolled on his chest; his mouth was gaping; his hair so pale as to be almost white. This was all Giovanni could see of his face before a footman seized his bridle and he was guided out of sight.
Giovanni knew this horseman for the King of France. He was followed by four big drums played at the double, and two pipes; and close behind him, endeavouring to regain their places at his side, which they had lost in the jostle of the turning, came the two Cardinals of St. Piero in Vincoli St. Malo, and at a short distance some French Marshals, who were closely followed by the Royal bodyguard of bowmen; then some French knights on foot and the Swiss vanguard–the finest infantry in Europe, splendid in many colours, bearing burnished street-halberds and distinguished by the waving plumes on the helmets of the officers.
After them came the agile, small, Gascon Infantry, and then the gorgeous Cavalry, the finest knights among the French aristocracy, glittering in their gold and silver armour, their brocade mantles, their chains of gold and sparkling jewels.
Above their heads floated the silk pennons they carried, while the velvet banners clung round their poles in the breezeless air.
Tall and fierce-looking Scotch archers armed with terrible and heavy weapons came after these.
The French Artillery had gone on to Rome by another route, and there were no guns with the army; but their numbers, their strange attire and stranger weapons, the richness of their appointments, the discipline they used in their marching, made them a new and terrifying spectacle to a city that only knew mercenaries.
The knights, soldiers, and archers were still pouring over the bridge when Giovanni whispered to his pages to help him back to his chair.
He sank into it in his old attitude–his hands on the arms, his head resting against the back; only now his eyes were closed, and the steady sound of the passing army was in his ears.
Girolamo Savonarola stood in the corner of the chamber; he also was listening to the sounds of the French entering Florence, and though he stood very still, with his hands on his breast, there was something triumphant in his face.