It was a perfect day, softly radiant, and all the city looked tawny and ruddy, as though the sun of many centuries had soaked into the walls of the houses. Here and there, from a high balcony, a splendid bit of colour was given by a piece of silk or rich tapestry flung over the railing. The crowd that jostled each other along the centre of the street, for there were no sidewalks, seemed energetic and voluble. Now and then a monk slipped past silently, dressed in a brown or black habit, or more often in a white woollen tunic reaching to his feet over which was thrown a black, full cloak. Now and then a couple of men on horseback, or some one driving a donkey, shoved the foot passers by aside, very rudely, Ruth and Rose thought.
“They might be more careful,” exclaimed Rose, in some wrath, when one tall man on a fine black horse almost knocked her over before she could flatten herself against the side of a house to get out of his way. He heard her furious exclamation, and laughed.
Maso looked anxious, and Romola shook her head. “You mustn’t get in the way of the Medici,” she remarked. “But here is the bridge, and the other bank is not so crowded.”
“Who are the Medici?” Ruth wanted to know. “And was he one?”
“They are the rulers of Florence, and he was one of their house. See, here comes a company of men-at-arms, and the great Duke himself. We are in luck, Maso, to see so goodly a sight.”
Maso nodded, and Rose and Ruth agreed. For it was truly a fine company that came trampling through the narrow street. There were some ten men in the party, the leader riding a coal-black horse and his followers on shining bays. This leader was a splendid object, clad in a sort of tunic of chain mail, with a crested helmet on his head that left his dark and beautiful face exposed, a face at once thoughtful, proud and fierce. A jewelled sword hung at his side, and jewels flashed from his horse’s trappings. He was laughing at something said by one of his train, yet the laugh did not lighten his stern expression.
“Who is he?” whispered Rose, staring with all her eyes.
“Lorenzo the Magnificent,” returned Romola, “Duke of Florence. A goodly sight, but a wicked man.”
At this moment the cavalcade stopped just beside the three girls, and Lorenzo bent his eyes upon them.
“Here be three fair lilies,” he called. “What do you on the streets of Florence without guardian?” he added, urging his horse close to the girls, and giving them a smiling glance. They shrank back against the wall, Rose feeling a sudden terror at the bold-eyed look, Ruth catching her sister’s hand, half in excitement, half in fear, Romola answering firmly: