“Silence, rascal!” sharply rejoined another voice. “Wouldst betray us with thy noise? Thou wouldst have the bargello upon us, with a murrain! Dost thou think that thou art brawling over thy liquor, that thou wouldst bring the notice of the police upon us?”
“Nay, I but spoke,” growled the other, and muffling himself up in his heavy cloak, leaned against the wall and held his peace.
The night was truly, as the first speaker observed, as black as Tartarus. The rain plashed down in torrents; and the squalls of wind which occasionally drove the showers with accelerated rapidity across the street, whistled dismally among the tall turrets and battlemented roofs of the Porta san Piero. The street was obscured by a thick mist, through which the feeble light of the flickering lamps, hung in the centre of the thoroughfare, at long distances from each other, shone like lurid meteors. Few wayfarers lingered in the passage, and such as were to be seen, with rapid strides, and close-wrapped cloaks, hurried over the wet and slippery stones, which formed a kind of rude pavé. Two figures, enveloped in large mantles, the actors in the dialogue, were carefully ensconced in the thick darkness of the blind alley, apparently upon the watch for some expected comer.
The turret clock of San Marco pealed the hour of ten, and as if waiting for the signal, the wind rose with increased fury, and spouts of water deluged the persons of the concealed parties.
“Corpo di Baccho!” swore the first speaker, “by the clock it is ten already, and yet no signs of Ugolino. My mantle cleaves to the skin with the wet, and altogether I feel more like a half-drowned rat, than a good Catholic. By my rosary, a bright fire, and a comfortable cup of father Borachio’s Lachryma, would be an excellent exchange for a dark alley and a waterspout like this.”
“Something has detained his honor beyond this time,” replied the other. “Count Ugolino was not wont to be so slow in keeping his engagements. Hark! I hear footsteps. It must be he. Stand close.”
A merry laugh pealed through the deserted street. A troop of gallants, masked, and attended by serving-men, and pages bearing torches, came onward. They passed by, and the clank of their spurs, and the rattle of their rapiers, died away in the distance.
“The cursed Frenchmen!” muttered the shortest of the concealed personages, while his hand clutched convulsively the hilt of his dagger. “Ill fare the day that Florence ever saw Walter of Brienne!”
“But as morn approaches the night is ever most dark,” rejoined his comrade. “Would the count were here. By the scales of justice I am even a’weary of waiting for him. Comes he not yet?”
A tall figure was seen stealthily approaching through the gloom.