“Frà Girolamo,” said Giovanni under his breath, “if I–should not live to enter your order, will you bury me in the habit of it?”
The Friar made no answer to this; he moved nearer the window and remarked, “Angelo Poliziano died this morning.”
“Ah!” A half-breath parted the young man’s full, pale lips, and a deeper look of sadness troubled the smooth calm of his gentle features. Poliziano was a name nearly as brilliant as his own, a man who had also been present at il Magnifico’s death-bed. It seemed as if all the friends of the old dynasty were following that dynasty’s fate.
“No one to-day will remember Poliziano,” said Giovanni, following out his thoughts; “and no one would remember Pico–if I were to die to-day.” He added instantly, turning his head towards the Friar, “Save only you, Frà Girolamo.”
Savonarola approached his chair and looked down at him with deep, sparkling eyes.
“Are you very ill?” he asked earnestly.
The young Prince smiled sweetly up at him.
“I am dying,” he said.
Frà Girolamo was startled; he lifted his right hand and let it fall on his heart.
“I received the viaticum this morning,” said Pico della Mirandola. “I have been surprised by death … too soon.… I would have died a Friar, and I would have died before I heard yonder army crossing the Arno.”