“For my part,” said a merry-looking fellow, who had been a gravedigger in bad times, and had now opened a stall of wares for the living, “I could forgive him all, but bathing in the holy vase of porphyry.”
“Ah, that was a bad job,” said several, shaking their heads.
“And the knighthood was but a silly show, an’ it were not for the wine from the horse’s nostrils—that had some sense in it.”
“My masters,” said Cecco, “the folly was in not beheading the Barons when he had them all in the net; and so Messere Baroncelli says. (Ah, Baroncelli is an honest man, and follows no half measures!) It was a sort of treason to the people not to do so. Why, but for that, we should never have lost so many tall fellows by the gate of San Lorenzo.”
“True, true, it was a shame; some say the Barons bought him.”
“And then,” said another, “those poor Lords Colonna—boy and man—they were the best of the family, save the Castello. I vow I pitied them.”
“But to the point,” said one of the crowd, the richest of the set; “the tax is the thing.—The ingratitude to tax us.—Let him dare to do it!”
“Oh, he will not dare, for I hear that the Pope’s bristles are up at last; so he will only have us to depend upon!”
The door was thrown open—a man rushed in open-mouthed—
“Masters, masters, the Pope’s legate has arrived at Rome, and sent for the Tribune, who has just left his presence.”