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 heart of grief. I heard a man's voice say, "Do not grieve, mother, since it was for this that he was born." I turned and saw the old woman who had first laughed her joy and revenge, and comforting her was the cobbler's lame son.

Many there were who wept, and this low sound so filled our ears that when the trumpets blared forth and the heralds cried that those with the ballots should form in line, their noise came to me as afar off, as a sound without meaning. As one in a dream I made my way through the crowd and joined the other scribes near Mazzaleone in the loggia.

He sat among his captains, very grave and weary, and I knew he, too, had kept San Moglio's vigil. Not once did his eyes leave the Brother Minor. He sat there as one who does honor to a power mightier than his own.

Now all was silent. No one moved, no one spoke. And then the silence was rent by the brazen voices of the trumpets and by the heralds crying that the balloting should begin.

At that moment, and before any could