“Confessed!” said Father Antonio,—­“was it not enough that they tore and tortured him seven times, but they must garble and twist the very words that he said in his agony?  The process they have published is foully falsified,—­stuffed full of improbable lies; for I myself have read the first draught of all he did say, just as Signor Ceccone took it down as they were torturing him.  I had it from Jacopo Manelli, canon of our Duomo here, and he got it from Ceccone’s wife herself.  They not only can torture and slay him, but they torture and slay his memory with lies.”

“Would I were in God’s place for one day!” said Agostino, speaking through his clenched teeth.  “May I be forgiven for saying so.”

“We are hot and hasty,” said Father Antonio, “ever ready to call down fire from heaven,—­but, after all, ’the Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice.’  ‘Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness.’  Our dear father is sustained in spirit and full of love.  Even when they let him go from the torture, he fell on his knees, praying for his tormentors.”

“Good God! this passes me!” said Agostino, striking his hands together.  “Oh, wherefore hath a strong man arms and hands, and a sword, if he must stand still and see such things done?  If I had only my hundred mountaineers here, I would make one charge for him to-morrow.  If I could only do something!” he added, striding impetuously up and down the cell and clenching his fists.  “What! hath nobody petitioned to stay this thing?”

“Nobody for him,” said Father Antonio.  “There was talk in the city yesterday that Fra Domenico was to be pardoned; in fact, Romalino was quite inclined to do it, but Battista Albert talked violently against it, and so Romalino said, ‘Well, a monk more or less isn’t much matter,’ and then he put his name down for death with the rest.  The order was signed by both commissaries of the Pope, and one was Fra Turiano, the general of our order, a mild man, full of charity, but unable to stand against the Pope.”

“Mild men are nuisances in such places”, said Agostino, hastily; “our times want something of another sort.”

“There be many who have fallen away from him even in our house here,” said Father Antonio,—­“as it was with our blessed Lord, whose disciples forsook him and fled.  It seems to be the only thought with some how they shall make their peace with the Pope.”

“And so the thing will be hurried through to-morrow,” said Agostino, “and when it’s done and over, I’ll warrant me there will be found kings and emperors to say they meant to have saved him.  It’s a vile, evil world, this of ours; an honorable man longs to see the end of it.  But,” he added, coming up and speaking to Father Antonio, “I have a private message for you.”

“I am gone this moment,” said Baccio, rising with ready courtesy; “but keep up heart, brother.”

So saying, the good-hearted artist left the cell, and Agostino said,—­