"My son," said Father Antonio, as they raised their heads after the evening prayer, "I am at this time like a man who, having long been away from his home, fears, on returning, that he shall hear some evil tidings of those he hath left. I long, yet dread, to go to my dear Father Girolamo and the beloved brothers in our house. There is a presage that lies heavy on my heart, so that I cannot shake it off. Look at our glorious old Duomo;—doth she not sit there among the houses and palaces as a queen-mother among nations,—worthy, in her greatness and beauty, to represent the Church of the New Jerusalem, the Bride of the Lord? Ah, I have seen it thronged and pressed with the multitude who came to crave the bread of life from our master!"
"Courage, my friend!" said Agostino; "it cannot be that Florence will suffer her pride and glory to be trodden down. Let us hasten on, for the shades of evening are coming fast, and there is a keen wind sweeping down from your snowy mountains." And the two soon found themselves plunging into the shadows of the streets, threading their devious way to the convent.
At length they drew up before a dark wall, where the Father Antonio rung a bell.
A door was immediately opened, a cowled head appeared, and a cautious voice asked,—
"Who is there?"
"Ah, is that you, good Brother Angelo?" said Father Antonio, cheerily.
"And is it you, dear Brother Antonio? Come in! come in!" was the cordial response, as the two passed into the court; "truly, it will make all our hearts leap to see you."
"And, Brother Angelo, how is our dear father? I have been so anxious about him!"
"Oh, fear not!—he sustains himself in God, and is full of sweetness to us all."
"But do the people stand by him, Angelo, and the Signoria?"