“Yes; Judas has his pieces of silver,” Mario resumed, glancing toward the man who had observed Iscariot’s hand gripping the bribe; “and when Christ says ‘One of you shall betray me’ the traitor holds up one hand as if to say ‘Really, I can’t believe that.’ But you see that the brand of guilt is on his face none the less. What a picture it is, and how proud your forefathers have been of it, men and women of Milan. Do you know how long it has been on that wall?”
“I do!” Red Errico called out. “Four hundred years!”
Mario told him he was right, and the leader’s friends looked at Errico in awe as there rose about his head the halo that knowledge creates for the ignorant. “Yes; it was on this very day four centuries ago that Leonardo gave it the last touch. Through all that time it has told its wondrous story, and may go on telling it to you and your children. Who among you will be, like Judas, the first to strike a traitorous blow against the best friend the wage-earner ever had?”
There was no response for what seemed a long space, during which the insurgents looked one another in the face and exchanged decisive shakings of the head. Even Red Errico had no words to utter except “Come away, comrades,” as he pushed through the crowd, which went with him toward the door. But the wild beast was still in their bosoms, lulled to sleep only for the moment by the words of an adroit orator. They gave forth a sullen growl as they moved into the street, looking back darkly at Mario, as if resentful at heart of the power that had killed their desire to violate the old picture.
For Mario, it was all he could do to keep on his feet and make his way back across the courtyard to where the Bemardines awaited him anxiously. The task just accomplished had almost exhausted his strength, ebbed to a low point, as it was, by the blow of the cavalryman’s scabbard and the resultant loss of blood. The wound in his forehead throbbed painfully, and he staggered now rather than walked. From the farther side of the close, to which they had ventured, the brothers saw him approach. They had caught a glimpse as well of the grumbling mob as it retreated from the passage, and they knew their Cenacolo[A] was saved.
“But at what cost!” exclaimed Brother Sebastiano, hurrying forward with the others to the aid of Mario. “Ah, Signor Forza,” he said, taking him by the arm, “you have made all mankind your debtor to-day. But do not speak now, we beg of you. Some time you will tell us the story. Now you must rest.”
Scarcely had they attained the inner sanctum when there was the sound of a halting carriage in Via Fiori, followed by a ring of the door bell. Presently the Cardinal appeared, his step quickened by the account of the event in the refectory given by Brother Ignazio on the way from the outer door.
“Ah, your Eminence,” the young monk was saying, “we feared never to look upon the Honourable’s living face again.”
“Indeed, it is most wonderful that we do so now,” was the prelate’s comment, as he seated himself beside Mario. “Why were you left single-handed to cope with them?” he asked, in reproof meant for the Bemardines.
“Single-voiced, rather,” Mario amended, smiling at the Cardinal’s notion of the encounter. “It was at my behest and against their wish that the brothers took no part.”