Vincenzo's eyes were on the missal, but not his thoughts: his ears on the strain for that sound he set his teeth in readiness to hear—the call to the gates.
In the silence of the chamber, the noises from the street sounded distinct, painfully distinct—shrieks and cries. Poor souls! so near eternity, and fighting over a handful of goods! Presently all noises died away into faint murmuring—or had he lost his power to hear? Then all at once it came—the beat of the drums, the summons to the walls! Louder, louder, wild, inspiring, the beat of the drums; and Vincenzo's heart bore them company.
They rose to their feet, the two d'Estes, and clasped hands across the table, the crucifix between them.
"God have mercy on our souls!" said Ippolito, and raised the pale, flaming candle.
"Amen," said Vincenzo, kissing the missal with cold lips.
The drums beat wildly, intoxicatingly, then suddenly stopped.
D'Este pushed back his chair; for a moment there was perfect stillness, then he laid the candle to the powder.... And Vincenzo d'Este was on his knees in the patch of sunlight, its glory full on his beautiful, upturned face.