The monk and knight seated themselves, the latter with his attention riveted on the remarkable man before him.  The head and face of Savonarola are familiar to us by many paintings and medallions, which, however, fail to impart what must have been that effect of his personal presence which so drew all hearts to him in his day.  The knight saw a man of middle age, of elastic, well-knit figure, and a flexibility and grace of motion which seemed to make every nerve, even to his finger-ends, vital with the expression of his soul.  The close-shaven crown and the plain white Dominican robe gave a severe and statuesque simplicity to the lines of his figure.  His head and face, like those of most of the men of genius whom modern Italy has produced, were so strongly cast in the antique mould as to leave no doubt of the identity of modern Italian blood with that of the great men of ancient Italy.  His low, broad forehead, prominent Roman nose, well-cut, yet fully outlined lips, and strong, finely moulded jaw and chin, all spoke the old Roman vigor and energy, while the flexible delicacy of all the muscles of his face and figure gave an inexpressible fascination to his appearance.  Every emotion and changing thought seemed to flutter and tremble over his countenance as the shadow of leaves over sunny water.  His eye had a wonderful dilating power, and when he was excited seemed to shower sparks; and his voice possessed a surprising scale of delicate and melodious inflections, which could take him in a moment through the whole range of human feeling, whether playful and tender or denunciatory and terrible.  Yet, when in repose among his friends, there was an almost childlike simplicity and artlessness of manner, which drew the heart by an irresistible attraction.  At this moment it was easy to see by his pale cheek and the furrowed lines of his face that he had been passing through severe struggles; but his mind seemed stayed on some invisible centre, in a solemn and mournful calm.

“Come, tell me something of the good works of the Lord in our Italy, brother,” he said, with a smile which was almost playful in its brightness.  “You have been through all the lowly places of the land, carrying our Lord’s bread to the poor, and repairing and beautifying shrines and altars by the noble gift that is in you.”

“Yes, father,” said the monk; “and I have found that there are many sheep of the Lord that feed quietly among the mountains of Italy, and love nothing so much as to hear of the dear Shepherd who laid down His life for them.”

“Even so, even so,” said the Superior, with animation; “and it is the thought of these sweet hearts that comforts me when my soul is among lions.  The foundation standeth sure,—­the Lord knoweth them that are His.”