All the while the bells of the Signori were pealing, and the music of them rose and fell with the hymns. Frà Girolamo suddenly looked up at the flames, the cracking canvas, shrivelling silks, splitting marbles, melting gold and silver, flaring scrolls of manuscript and smoking boxes of perfumes that composed the pyre; then, with bowed head, made his way quickly and unobserved through the crowd and out of the Piazza. He was instantly and closely followed by the tall stranger who had so persistently regarded him, and who now came softly after without attracting his attention.
The streets were deserted; every one being gathered in or near the Piazza, and the Friar passed unnoticed before the fronts of the tall, carved houses; he was swiftly making his way to the Convent of St. Mark, and had turned down an empty side street, deep in shade, when he suddenly paused, as if inwardly troubled, and, turning slowly, beheld the stranger who had also come to a stop a few paces behind him.
Frà Girolamo regarded him earnestly; they were alone in the street at the bottom of which was a glimpse of the Arno’s arched bridge; behind them rose the steps and closed door of a hospital, above the garden wall of which showed cypress trees and branches of laurel.
“You,” said the tall man in sweet and cultivated Tuscan, “you are Frà Girolamo Savonarola, friar of St. Mark’s and ruler of Florence?”
“Girolamo Savonarola I am,” answered the Friar; “ruler of Florence I am not, but God’s instrument for some good in this city.”
The other, still speaking from the depths of the coarse hood that completely concealed his face, made reply–
“Ruler and Master of Florence, Friar, even as Lorenzo was Ruler and Master, even as the Medici were great are you great, and to-day you have had proof of it.”
“Who are you?” demanded Frà Girolamo.
“One who loved Lorenzo and found Florence pleasant in his days.”