“I did not hate Lorenzo–I would have saved his soul.”
“You refused him absolution!”
“Because,” replied the Friar, “he would not repent of his sins.”
The stranger laughed impatiently.
“Usurper! You hold his place, while his son, at the Borgia’s footstool, eats in Rome the husks of charity.”
Frà Girolamo answered sternly, while the light of enthusiasm kindled to red fire in his eyes.
“Who are you who speak for the wicked? Piero de’ Medici abused his power; he would have sold our liberty to the French–lustful, vain, hollow; he was banished Florence for his sins and a price put upon his head. Woe to this city if he returns! At the Borgia’s footstool, you say! It is fitting that such a prince should fly to such a Pope!”
The stranger came a short step nearer and loosened his hand on his hood so that his face was visible to the Friar, who observed that he wore one of the hideous masks of the Medicean Carnival, mottled and spotted to represent a plague-stricken countenance; he noticed the Friar’s start of aversion and laughed again.
“This should have gone to feed yonder pyre!” he said. “Oh, credulous Friar, do you think that you have burnt all the sins in Florence?”
Girolamo Savonarola answered simply.