Savonarola still did not speak; his dark face was stained by a dusky flush of pain. He loved this beautiful young man who was so devoted and humble a follower of his doctrines–this prince whom neither great birth, great gifts, great fortune nor great praise had spoiled, and he hoped that he would not die. It was a marvellous thing if he, broken and ill, was to be spared and this youth to be taken in the flower of his days.
“Oh, what have I done with my life!” whispered Giovanni, and the tears sparkled in his long clear eyes.
“Are you at peace?” asked the Friar abruptly.
“Nay, not quite at peace, for I love the things of this world and cannot wholly forget them, even while every breath I draw brings me nearer the Judgment of God.”
The Friar looked at him earnestly.
“Why should you die, Giovanni? I think you will live.”
“No; death entered my chamber this morning and is here now, waiting his time.”
“Should I bring your friends or your physician?”
“Let me die alone,” answered Giovanni. “I have been too much in crowds all my life.”
“You have no great sins to answer for,” returned the Friar. “You need not be afraid to appear before God, Conte.”