“Only the old story,” said Father Antonio,—­“Principes convenerunt in unum adversus Dominum, adversus Christum ejus.”

So much were all three absorbed in the subject of their thoughts, that no kind of greeting or mark of recognition passed among them, such as is common when people meet after temporary separation.  Each spoke out from the fulness of his soul, as from an overflowing bitter fountain.

“Was there no one to speak for him,—­no one to stand up for the pride of Italy,—­the man of his age?” said Agostino.

“There was one voice raised for him in the council,” said Father Antonio.  “There was Agnolo Niccolini:  a grave man is this Agnolo, and of great experience in public affairs, and he spoke out his mind boldly.  He told them flatly, that, if they looked through the present time or the past ages, they would not meet a man of such a high and noble order as this, and that to lay at our door the blood of a man the like of whom might not be born for centuries was too impious and execrable a thing to be thought of.  I’ll warrant me, he made a rustling among them when he said that, and the Pope’s commissary—­old Romalino—­then whispered and frowned; but Agnolo is a stiff old fellow when he once begins a thing,—­he never minded it, and went through with his say.  It seems to me he said that it was not for us to quench a light like this, capable of giving lustre to the faith even when it had grown dim in other parts of the world,—­and not to the faith alone, but to all the arts and sciences connected with it.  If it were needed to put restraint on him, he said, why not put him into some fortress, and give him commodious apartments, with abundance of books, and pen, ink, and paper, where he would write books to the honor of God and the exaltation of the holy faith?  He told them that this might be a good to the world, whereas consigning him to death without use of any kind would bring on our republic perpetual dishonor.”

“Well said for him!” said Baccio, with warmth; “but I’ll warrant me, he might as well have preached to the north wind in March, his enemies are in such a fury.”

“Yes, yes,” said Antonio, “it is just as it was of old:  the chief priests and Scribes and Pharisees were instant with loud voices, requiring he should be put to death; and the easy Pilates, for fear of the tumult, washed their hands of it.”

“And now,” said Agostino, “they are putting up a great gibbet in the shape of a cross in the public square, where they will hang the three holiest and best men of Florence!”

“I came through there this morning,” said Baccio, “and there were young men and boys shouting, and howling, and singing indecent songs, and putting up indecent pictures, such as those he used to preach against.  It is just as you say.  All things vile have crept out of their lair, and triumph that the man who made them afraid is put down; and every house is full of the most horrible lies about him,—­things that they said he confessed.”