“I am not afraid,” replied the young man faintly. “But I am very loth to leave the world, and that troubles me.”
A light of enthusiasm and joy sprang into the Friar’s eyes. He clasped his thin, nervous hands convulsively together.
“Could I but have brought you within the walls of St. Mark’s–into that great peace where the spirit of St. Antonine still dwells, where it is indeed like Heaven for the great company of angels painted by Frà Beato Angelico that beam from the walls!”
“Alas!” said the Conte della Mirandola; “such joy is not for me!”
Clouds had crept over the perfect blue; faint silver veils they were, and a pale rain descended and a low wind rose, stirring the boughs of the cypresses and the arras hanging before the houses.
Still could be heard the shouting, the tramp, the jostle of arms, the running to and fro, the tap of the drums, the whistle of the pipes.
And Pico della Mirandola could not close his ears to these sounds; he was thinking more of Florence than of God, and because of this the tears ran down his cheeks.
The Friar seemed to guess his thoughts.
“Florence is in God’s hands, and I am his instrument to preserve her people.”
Giovanni took his eyes from the rain and the cypresses and the soft grey sky, and looked at the Friar.