He entered so softly that Agnes did not hear his approach, and he stood listening to her singing.  He had come back with his mind burning with indignation against the Pope and the whole hierarchy then ruling in Rome; but conversation with Father Antonio and the scenes he had witnessed at San Marco had converted the blind sense of personal wrong into a fixed principle of moral indignation and opposition.  He no longer found himself checked by the pleading of his early religious recollections; for now he had a leader who realized in his own person all his conceptions of those primitive apostles and holy bishops who first fed the flock of the Lord in Italy.  He had heard from his lips the fearless declaration, “If Rome is against me, know that it is not contrary to me, but to Christ, and its controversy is with God:  doubt not that God will conquer”; and he embraced the cause with all the enthusiasm of patriotism and knighthood.  In his view, the most holy place of his religion had been taken by a robber, who reigned in the name of Christ only to disgrace it; and he felt called to pledge his sword, his life, his knightly honor to do battle against him.  He had urged his uncle in Milan to make interest for the cause of Savonarola with the King of France; and his uncle, with that crafty diplomacy which in those days formed the staple of what was called statesmanship, had seemed to listen favorably to his views,—­intending, however, no more by his apparent assent than to withdraw his nephew from the dangers in which he stood in Italy, and bring him under his own influence and guardianship in the court of France.  But the wily diplomate had sent Agostino Sarelli from his presence with the highest possible expectations of his influence both with the King of France and the Emperor of Germany in the present religious crisis in Italy.

And now the time was come, Agostino thought, to break the spell under which Agnes was held,—­to show her the true character of the men whom she was beholding through a mist of veneration arising entirely from the dewy freshness of ignorant innocence.  All the way home from Florence he had urged his horse onward, burning to meet her, to tell her all that he knew and felt, to claim her as his own, and to take her into the sphere of light and liberty in which he himself moved.  He did not doubt his power, when she should once be where he could speak with her freely, without fear of interruption.  Hers was a soul too good and pure, he said, to be kept in chains of slavish ignorance any longer.  When she ceased singing, he spoke from the outer apartment,—­“Agnes!”

The name was uttered in the softest tone, but it sent the blood to her heart, as if it were the summons of doom.  Everything seemed to swim before her, and grow dark for a moment; but by a strong effort she lifted her heart in prayer, and, rising, came towards him.