The stranger gave him a disdainful salutation and flung up his graceful head. “Back to your cell, and pray the people in whom you trust keep faithful!” he cried lightly. “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!” The Friar cast up his eyes to the blinding mist and answered– “I am here!” And the voice made reply– “Come thou and see how the people of Florence love thee!” With great rejoicing he said, “I come!” Forward he pressed through the obscurity, and the darkness began to be tinged with red and dispelled as from the spreading glow of flames, and as Frà Girolamo hastened on he found himself suddenly on the Piazza again, standing apart from a vast crowd that was dancing and singing about a huge fire that lit the whole black sky and stained the blank buildings with a lurid colour. And the voice said, very low and in the Friar’s ear– “These are the people who sang the songs of Lorenzo de’ Medici, the people who burnt the vanities. Behold what task they perform now!” Frà Girolamo looked and saw that the crowd was very brilliantly dressed, that the women wore jewels and paints, the men fine silks and rich weapons, and that they danced in a mad profane style; many were masked and all wreathed with flowers, and the heavy scents they were anointed with hung in the thick air; nor did they sing hymns, but the wanton carnival songs of Lorenzo de’ Medici.