Tolled, and they talked and buzzed, I only prayed.
“How if he did not come? Saints, let him come!
O pitying Virgin, only grant he come!”
They came at last, the Bargello and his troop,
And in the midst my love with hands fast tied,
And golden locks uncurled and face all wan,
But still with gallant bearing, and his eyes
Fixed upon mine,—me, for whose sake he died,
For whose sweet honor’s sake he silent died.
There was a little halt, and then a cry