But on a future day the populace showed itself more violent. I was unwell, and had not left the house, when my brother came back with the news that there had been a riot in the streets, and that on the appearance of my friend Beppa, the florist, the old cry had been raised of “A spy!—a Court spy!” and the poor woman had been hunted down several streets, and was flying in terror for her very life; then came to her rescue, rising as they ever did, as if by magic, in the hour of need, the noble band of the “Misericordia,” bound to succour and to protect the sick and the sorrowful. Clad in their black robes, their faces shrouded by their black hoods, they interposed between the pursuers and their victim, and claimed the right, which none durst question, of taking possession of the fugitive. Beppa was sick, she was near her confinement, therefore she came within the jurisdiction of the “Misericordia,” who, placing her on the litter they always carry with them, bore her off, not to the hospital, as is usual in such cases, but to a place of safety and secrecy. [Sidenote: “BEPPA” THE FLORIST] I was very much distressed when I heard of the danger my favourite had run, and longed to hear some news of her, which I did a few days later, in rather dramatic manner. I was walking on the Lung’arno when a little boy approached me. He attracted my attention in a mysterious manner, “’St, ’st, Signorina,” he said; “listen to me, but take no notice of me. Beppa salutes you tenderly. She has a beautiful boy; she sends you these flowers,” which he smuggled into my hand, “and hopes to see you soon.” Accordingly, in the course of time, our faithful Henry ushered a muffled figure, whose face was completely hidden by the hood of a long cloak, into the drawing-room of Casa Lagerschward. It was Beppa, my Beppa! She flung off her disguise as she clasped me in her arms; she wept, she laughed, she went into rapture over her baby, over her husband-“Che mi vuole un ben di paradiso.”[46] It was a spectacle to astonish an undemonstrative Northerner. When the time came for us to leave Florence, Beppa was one of the humble friends whom I regretted most; but oh! how I grieved to say farewell to that beautiful city! Footnote 46: “Who loves me with the love of heaven,” is the only translation I can render of these untranslatable words. “Oh! rightly, justly named the fair, There is a magic in thine air, A gladness in thine atmosphere, Where floating particles of joy, With hidden hope the spirits buoy, And every feeling cheer. “Fair city of the myriad towers, How oft my heart will yearn Towards thee and thine and those dear hours Which never can return. No more for me thy suns shall shine, No more, no more thy flowerets twine A garland for my brow!”