“I have done what God put it into my heart to do. Let Him judge me. For you, ask me what question you would have answered, or if this is but idleness, let me on my way.”
“This is your day of triumph,” said the other man with a passionate ring in his voice. “You to-day have burnt all the Medici rejoiced in–painting, statuary, music, books, poetry, gay dresses, perfumes, cards and dice; and those people who praised Lorenzo for making this Florence so beautiful and splendid have danced round your pyre in gladness!”
Frà Girolamo regarded him steadily.
“Are not you also,” he asked gently, “pleased to see this city brought a little way to repentance?”
“Friar,” answered the stranger vehemently, “I am your enemy. I stand for all you would destroy–the lust of the world, the pride of the beautiful, the power of the devil. I am also a ruined, outcast, beggared man, one of those your rule has banished from Florence. If I were discovered I should be murdered, and that would be better than to starve in Rome.”
“Your name?” interrupted Frà Girolamo. “Are you one whom I know?”
“You know me,” was the haughty response; “but my name is not pleasing to your ears. You I hate, ay, and all your works; but there is a day soon when all hates shall be satisfied.”
Girolamo Savonarola made quiet answer.
“If you are a follower of Piero de’ Medici, I warn you to quit Florence, for I cannot and would not save one of the tyrant’s tools from the just anger of the People–the People!–in them is my trust against these evils you threaten me with.”
He turned to pass on his way, but the young man sprang lightly after him and caught his mantle.