"To Verona!" said an old peasant, turning sharply at the name. "To Verona!"
The child dropped again to his knees beside Tomaso.
"Yes," he said, over his shoulder. "My cousin—he is done to death, I fear me—and I were traveling by way of Milan to Della Scala's court——"
He broke off, and wrung his hands. "Oh, help me, some one; Tomaso is dying!"
With a certain dull humanity, kindness it could scarcely be called that was so inert and full of apathy, one or two of them gave what help they could.
"Thou art from Florence!" said the old man again. "Aye, indeed, I know thou art from Florence, for thy mate here to have had such daring. Why camest thou from Florence to anywhere by way of Milan?"
For even to the dull mind of the peasantry, Florence, who alone of the cities of Italy had preserved her liberty, seemed a country of the free, a republic of equality.
"Tomaso's father sent for him to come to him in Della Scala's court, and as last year my father was slain in the wars with Venice, since then I have resided with my cousin—and so accompany him—having naught else to do!"
The boy looked up bewildered; he was half-dazed with this sudden misfortune.