hy, the young
novice had from the first to battle against the defects of a voice that
was both harsh and weak, a defective pronunciation, and above all, the
depression of his physical powers, exhausted as they were by too severe
abstinence.

Savonarala from that time condemned himself to the most absolute
seclusion, and disappeared in the depths of his convent, as if the slab
of his tomb had already fallen over him. There, kneeling on the flags,
praying unceasingly before a wooden crucifix, fevered by vigils and
penances, he soon passed out of contemplation into ecstasy, and began to
feel in himself that inward prophetic impulse which summoned him to
preach the reformation of the Church.

Nevertheless, the reformation of Savonarola, more reverential than
Luther's, which followed about five-and-twenty years later, respected the
thing while attacking the man, and had as its aim the altering of
teaching that was human, not faith that was of God. He did not work,
like the German monk, by reasoning, but by enthusiasm. With him logic
always gave way before inspiration: he was not a theologian, but a
prophet. Yet, although hitherto he had bowed his head before the
authority of the Church, he had already raised it against the temporal
power. To him religion and liberty appeared as two virgins equally
sacred; so that, in his view, Lorenzo in subjugating the one was as
culpable as Pope Innocent VIII in dishonouring the other. The result of
this was that, so long as Lorenzo lived in riches, happiness, and
magnificence, Savonarola had never been willing, whatever entreaties were
made, to sanction by his presence a power which he considered
illegitimate. But Lorenzo on his deathbed sent for him, and that was
another matter. The austere preacher set forth at once, bareheaded and
barefoot, hoping to save not only the soul of the dying man but also the
liberty of the republic.

Lorenzo, as we have said, was awaiting the arrival of Savonarola with an
impatience mixed with uneasiness; so that, when he heard the sound of his
steps, his pale face took a yet more deathlike tinge, while at the same
time he raised himself on his elbow and ordered his three friends to go
away. They obeyed at once, and scarcely had they left by one door than
the curtain of the other was raised, and the monk, pale, immovable,
solemn, appeared on the threshold. When he perceived him, Lorenzo dei
Medici, reading in his marble brow the inflexibility of