“And it is good and encouraging,” said Father Antonio, “to see the zeal of the poor, who will give their last penny for the altar of the Lord, and who flock so to hear the word and take the sacraments.  I have had precious seasons of preaching and confessing, and have worked in blessedness many days restoring and beautifying the holy pictures and statues whereby these little ones have been comforted.  What with the wranglings of princes and the factions and disturbances in our poor Italy, there be many who suffer in want and loss of all things, so that no refuge remains to them but the altars of our Jesus, and none cares for them but He.”

“Brother,” said the Superior, “there be thousands of flowers fairer than man ever saw that grow up in waste places and in deep dells and shades of mountains; but God bears each one in His heart, and delighteth Himself in silence with them:  and so doth He with these poor, simple, unknown souls.  The True Church is not a flaunting queen who goes boldly forth among men displaying her beauties, but a veiled bride, a dove that is in the cleft of the rocks, whose voice is known only to the Beloved.  Ah! when shall the great marriage-feast come, when all shall behold her glorified?  I had hoped to see the day here in Italy:  but now”——­

The father stopped, and seemed to lapse into unconscious musing,—­his large eye growing fixed and mysterious in its expression.

“The brothers have been telling me somewhat of the tribulations you have been through,” said Father Antonio, who thought he saw a good opening to introduce the subject nearest his heart.

“No more of that!—­no more!” said the Superior, turning away his head with an expression of pain and weariness; “rather let us look up.  What think you, brother, are all these doing now?” he said, pointing to the saints in the picture.  “They are all alive and well, and see clearly through our darkness.”  Then, rising up, he added, solemnly, “Whatever man may say or do, it is enough for me to feel that my dearest Lord and His blessed Mother and all the holy archangels, the martyrs and prophets and apostles, are with me.  The end is coming.”

“But, dearest father,” said Antonio, “think you the Lord will suffer the wicked to prevail?”

“It may be for a time,” said Savonarola.  “As for me, I am in His hands only as an instrument.  He is master of the forge and handles the hammer, and when He has done using it He casts it from Him.  Thus He did with Jeremiah, whom He permitted to be stoned to death when his preaching mission was accomplished; and thus He may do with this hammer when He has done using it.”

At this moment a monk rushed into the room with a face expressive of the utmost terror, and called out,—­

“Father, what shall we do?  The mob are surrounding the convent!  Hark! hear them at the doors!”

In truth, a wild, confused roar of mingled shrieks, cries, and blows came in through the open door of the apartment; and the pattering sound of approaching footsteps was heard like showering raindrops along the cloisters.