Drums and trumpets sounded. All the bells pealed, the crowd raised a roar of triumph, as though Satan himself had perished in the flames of the holy pile, together with all the falsehood, pain and sins of the whole earth. Giovanni clapped his hands to his temples and would have fled. But a hand was laid upon his shoulder; he turned and looked: beside him stood Leonardo, with his quiet untroubled face. The Master took him by the hand and drew him forth from the crowd.
They moved from the square, pervaded by clouds of stifling smoke, and, lit up by the glow of the dying bonfire, by an obscure lane they took their way to the banks of the Arno. Here all breathed quietness and calm: the stream glided by, gently murmuring: the stars scintillated, coldly brilliant, and the moon bathed the hills in a flood of silver glory.
'Giovanni,' said Leonardo, 'why did you forsake me?'
The disciple raised his eyes and tried to speak; but his voice died in his throat, his lip trembled, and he burst into tears.
'I knew not what I did,' murmured Boltraffio. 'How, O God! how could I have left you?'
He would have told his sufferings, his madness, the anguish of his terrible doubts. But as when at Milan he had stood before the Colossus of Francesco Sforza, he felt that Leonardo would have no comprehension; and in hopeless entreaty he looked into his eyes--eyes clear, calm, and alien as the stars.
As if divining the conflict in his soul, the Master did not question him; he smiled with infinite kindness, and laying his hand on the young head he said:--
'God help you, my poor boy: you know I have ever loved you as my favourite son! Will you come back to me? I will receive you with joy.'
Then, scarce audibly, as if speaking to himself, he added:--
'The deeper the sensitiveness, the greater the grief. A martyr among the martyrs!'
From afar came the clash of the bells, the scream of the chant, the cry of the frenzied mob. But Master and pupil were happy.
_'Tornerà l'età dell' oro Cantiam tutti: "Viva il Moro!"'_ BELLINCIONI.
[The Age of Gold shall brighten as of yore, And all exulting sing, 'Long live the Moor!']
Beatrice d'Este, Duchess of Milan, sat in her boudoir writing a letter to her sister Isabella, wife of the Marchese Francesco Gonzaga, lord of Mantua:--