“Help us,” panted Romola. “The Duke has threatened to take us to his palace, we know not what will become of us. We managed to slip from the horses in the confusion, but they are after us ... hear the shouts!”
“Quick!” said the boy, without an instant’s hesitation, and turning, he ran down a narrow street for a hundred yards, beckoning the girls to follow. At a sort of sunken gateway he stopped, drew a key from his breast, turned it in the lock, and waved them within.
Safe inside, with the door shut behind them, the girls drew long, sobbing breaths, for the struggle to get through the crowd had been severe.
They were in a dusky sort of crypt, with vaulted passages leading away in various directions.
“Come,” said the boy, and walked ahead of them a short way, then opened another door, admitting them into a small octagonal chamber with benches around the walls and a table in the centre. A huge crucifix hung on the wall at one end, and a dusky painting faced it. A little light came through a high, narrow window, while two tall candles flamed dimly before the crucifix.
“You are safe here,” said the boy. “Presently, when the hue and cry has died down, I will guide you back home. So the tyrant tried to steal you?” His voice as he spoke trembled, and a look of hate shone in his dark eyes.
“Yes,” said Romola. “These two friends of mine and I, with old Maso, were bound for the other bank of the Arno when we encountered the Magnificent. It amused him to accost us, and when we refused to be frightened, he gave orders we should be taken to his castle. What might have happened to us all I know not. In the meanwhile Maso must certainly have returned to my father, who will be in despair—for which of us can oppose the Medici?”
The boy, who wore a long red garment reaching to his heels, with a cross hanging from a chain round his neck, made a fierce gesture.
“I am a son of Holy Church,” said he, “soon to be admitted to orders. But I should be glad to run my blade through his black heart. The blood of the murdered Pazzi is in my veins, and there is no Florentine but knows how my House was destroyed by this upstart Medici—how my father was dragged at a horse’s heels through the streets, hacked into pieces and flung to the Arno.”
He told this dreadful tale quietly, without raising his voice, but the tone of him made Ruth shiver, and Rose turn pale, while Romola’s eyes flashed.