“Florence is free!”
“Florence is free!” echoed the Monks of the Holy Steel, and the shout resounded through the circular room of the tower, repeated by the Neophytes of the Order, with one wild acclaim, “Florence the fair and beautiful is free!”
Slowly the High Priest of the Order arose.
From the dome of the tower the light fell dimly over the scene.
The Monks of the Holy Steel were seated around the square table, their faces veiled, their forms muffled in sable robes.
The figures of the Neophytes, (or Initiates) were grouped around the Superiors of the Order. They stood shoulder to shoulder, along the walls of the Tower-Room, every one with a dagger in his right hand, a torch in his left.
The torches were extinguished, for the work of the Order was accomplished.
Stately and erect, in the midst of this scene, towered the tall figure of the High Priest, veiled and muffled like the others, his hands extended over the heads of the brethren in a gesture of benediction.
And at the other end of the table sate the veiled Doomsman, his rough hand appearing from the folds of the black robe, laid upon the handle of the axe, whose steel was crusted with the rust of blood.
“Three years ago,” thus spoke the High Priest, “the cry of blood, day and night, unceasingly and forever, went up to the throne of God calling for vengeance.