“Two thousand crowns to-day for the head of Piero de’ Medici–how much in a year’s time for thine, O Friar, when Alessandro Borgia cries you excommunicate?”
Frà Girolamo stepped away and his dark eyes lifted to the evening sky.
“The Pope is a broken tool, a vile trader in holy things,” he answered with great dignity. “And in Florence, where I am beloved, his authority is worth nothing; here the voice of God alone is strong.”
“And the voice of the People,” returned the stranger mockingly; and with a low, insulting laugh he moved slowly away and was soon lost in the shadows.
Girolamo Savonarola gazed after him a moment, then proceeded on his way, a strange excitement throbbing in his veins and before his eyes a mistiness of familiar objects, as if an unnatural darkness had fallen.
He walked for a while in this manner, meeting no one, marvelling at the curious emptiness of the city and the increasing blackness; everything seemed strange and unusual. He thought he should have reached his Convent by now, but instead found himself traversing dark, empty streets that were those of Florence yet unknown to him. He turned to retrace his steps, but was like one groping in the labyrinth, roads and houses crossed and recrossed, and he wandered confused. Nowhere was there any light, in either window or in the heaven; he had lost sight of the Duomo and the star above it; as if the Plague had crept through the city was the silence and the loneliness.
Then out of the empty hush came the sound as of harsh wings beating together, and a voice cried strongly–
“Girolamo Savonarola!”