The streets were deserted; every one being gathered in or near the Piazza, and the Friar passed unnoticed before the fronts of the tall, carved houses; he was swiftly making his way to the Convent of St. Mark, and had turned down an empty side street, deep in shade, when he suddenly paused, as if inwardly troubled, and, turning slowly, beheld the stranger who had also come to a stop a few paces behind him. Frà Girolamo regarded him earnestly; they were alone in the street at the bottom of which was a glimpse of the Arno’s arched bridge; behind them rose the steps and closed door of a hospital, above the garden wall of which showed cypress trees and branches of laurel. “You,” said the tall man in sweet and cultivated Tuscan, “you are Frà Girolamo Savonarola, friar of St. Mark’s and ruler of Florence?” “Girolamo Savonarola I am,” answered the Friar; “ruler of Florence I am not, but God’s instrument for some good in this city.” The other, still speaking from the depths of the coarse hood that completely concealed his face, made reply– “Ruler and Master of Florence, Friar, even as Lorenzo was Ruler and Master, even as the Medici were great are you great, and to-day you have had proof of it.” “Who are you?” demanded Frà Girolamo. “One who loved Lorenzo and found Florence pleasant in his days.” “I did not hate Lorenzo–I would have saved his soul.” “You refused him absolution!” “Because,” replied the Friar, “he would not repent of his sins.” The stranger laughed impatiently. “Usurper! You hold his place, while his son, at the Borgia’s footstool, eats in Rome the husks of charity.” Frà Girolamo answered sternly, while the light of enthusiasm kindled to red fire in his eyes. “Who are you who speak for the wicked? Piero de’ Medici abused his power; he would have sold our liberty to the French–lustful, vain, hollow; he was banished Florence for his sins and a price put upon his head. Woe to this city if he returns! At the Borgia’s footstool, you say! It is fitting that such a prince should fly to such a Pope!” The stranger came a short step nearer and loosened his hand on his hood so that his face was visible to the Friar, who observed that he wore one of the hideous masks of the Medicean Carnival, mottled and spotted to represent a plague-stricken countenance; he noticed the Friar’s start of aversion and laughed again. “This should have gone to feed yonder pyre!” he said. “Oh, credulous Friar, do you think that you have burnt all the sins in Florence?” Girolamo Savonarola answered simply. “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.”