"Not a movement," breathed Tomaso, and Vittore crouched in silent fright.
None the less, motionless as they thought themselves, some slight movement betrayed them, for the rider dismounted, advanced toward their hiding-place, and softly spoke.
"Who is there? I am a friend," he said.
"He is a Florentine," whispered Vittore joyfully; but Tomaso leaned against the tree in silence, and even through the gathering dusk, as the younger boy looked up, he saw that he was pale and trembling.
"Canst thou direct me?" said the stranger. "I can pay thee for thy services."
"Answer him, Tomaso," Vittore whispered eagerly; "he is a Florentine, he will not hurt us."
Tomaso made a step forward. "It is some one we know," he said chokingly, "or my brain is playing me strange tricks."
As he spoke, he put aside the branches that hid them, and stepped forward. The stranger had guessed their hiding-place unerringly; he stood close by, his horse's bridle across his arm. He was a slight, roughly-dressed, but well-formed man of middle age, light in color and of strong yet delicate features.
"Thou needst not fear me," he began with a smile; then, as the two figures drew nearer, he paused, and in his turn grew pale and trembled.