“Courage, my friend!” said Agostino; “it cannot be that Florence will suffer her pride and glory to be trodden down.  Let us hasten on, for the shades of evening are coming fast, and there is a keen wind sweeping down from your snowy mountains.”

And the two soon found themselves plunging into the shadows of the streets, threading their devious way to the convent.

At length they drew up before a dark wall, where the Father Antonio rang a bell.

A door was immediately opened, a cowled head appeared, and a cautious voice asked,—­

“Who is there?”

“Ah, is that you, good Brother Angelo?” said Father Antonio, cheerily.

“And is it you, dear Brother Antonio?  Come in! come in!” was the cordial response, as the two passed into the court; “truly, it will make all our hearts leap to see you.”

“And, Brother Angelo, how is our dear father?  I have been so anxious about him!”

“Oh, fear not!—­he sustains himself in God, and is full of sweetness to us all.”

“But do the people stand by him, Angelo, and the Signoria?”

“He has strong friends as yet, but his enemies are like ravening wolves.  The Pope hath set on the Franciscans, and they hunt him as dogs do a good stag.—­But whom have you here with you?” added the monk, raising his torch and regarding the knight.

“Fear him not; he is a brave knight and good Christian, who comes to offer his sword to our father and seek his counsels.”

“He shall be welcome,” said the porter, cheerfully.  “We will have you into the refectory forthwith, for you must be hungry.”

The young cavalier, following the flickering torch of his conductor, had only a dim notion of long cloistered corridors, out of which now and then, as the light flared by, came a golden gleam from some quaint old painting, where the pure angel forms of Angelico stood in the gravity of an immortal youth, or the Madonna, like a bending lily, awaited the message of Heaven; but when they entered the refectory, a cheerful voice addressed them, and Father Antonio was clasped in the embrace of the father so much beloved.

“Welcome, welcome, my dear son!” said that rich voice which had thrilled so many thousand Italian hearts with its music.  “So you are come back to the fold again.  How goes the good work of the Lord?”

“Well, everywhere,” said Father Antonio; and then, recollecting his young friend, he suddenly turned and said,—­

“Let me present to you one son who comes to seek your instructions,—­the young Signor Agostino, of the noble house of Sarelli.”

The Superior turned to Agostino with a movement full of a generous frankness, and warmly extended his hand, at the same time fixing upon him the mesmeric glance of a pair of large, deep blue eyes, which might, on slight observation, have been mistaken for black, so great was their depth and brilliancy.

Agostino surveyed his new acquaintance with that mingling of ingenuous respect and curiosity with which an ardent young man would regard the most distinguished leader of his age, and felt drawn to him by a certain atmosphere of vital cordiality such as one can feel better than describe.