ather, I will do it."

"The third," resumed Savonarola, "is that you restore to the republic her
ancient independence end her farmer liberty."

Lorenzo sat up on his bed, shaken by a convulsive movement, and
questioned with his eyes the eyes of the Dominican, as though he would
find out if he had deceived himself and not heard aright. Savonarola
repeated the same words.

"Never! never!" exclaimed Lorenzo, falling back on his bed and shaking
his head,--"never!"

The monk, without replying a single word, made a step to withdraw.

"My father, my father," said the dying man, "do not leave me thus: have
pity on me!"

"Have pity on Florence," said the monk.

"But, my father," cried Lorenzo, "Florence is free, Florence is happy."

"Florence is a slave, Florence is poor," cried Savonarola, "poor in
genius, poor in money, and poor in courage; poor in genius, because after
you, Lorenzo, will come your son Piero; poor in money, because from the
funds of the republic you have kept up the magnificence of your family
and the credit of your business houses; poor in courage, because you have
robbed the rightful magistrates of the authority which was
constitutionally theirs, and diverted the citizens from the double path
of military and civil life, wherein, before they were enervated by your
luxuries, they had displayed the virtues of the ancients; and therefore,
when the day shall dawn which is not far distant," continued the mark,
his eyes fixed and glowing as if he were reading in the future, "whereon
the barbarians shall descend from the mountains, the walls of our towns,
like those of Jericho, shall fall at the blast of their trumpets."

"And do you desire that I should yield up on my deathbed the power that
has made the glory of my whole life?" cried Lorenzo dei Medici.

"It is not I who desire it; it is the Lord," replied Savonarola coldly.

"Impossible, impossible!" murmured Lorenzo.

"Very well; then die as you have lived!" cried the monk, "in the midst of
your courtiers and flatterers; let them ruin your soul as they have
ruined your body!" And at these words, the austere Dominican, without
listening to the cries of the dying man, left the room as he had entered
it, with face and step unaltered; far above human things he seemed to
soar, a spirit already detached from the earth.

At the cry which broke from Lorenzo dei Medici when he saw him disappear,
Ermolao, Poliziano, and Pico delta Mirandola, who had heard a