He slept quietly the night preceding the time fixed for his execution, and was early ready to take his place in the sad procession.  Did no thought cross Hyppolito’s clear mind, that he was throwing away, in weak passion, a life given to him by God for noble ends?  We know not; but there he was—­calm, firm, and serious.  His only request was, that the procession might pass through the street of the Bardi, which some thought was a sign of penitence, an act of humiliation.  The sad train moves on.  An old man sitting at a door rises, strains his eyes to catch a last glimpse of Hyppolito, and then covers them in anguish, and sinks down again.  This is an old man he had saved from misery and death.  Two youths, hand in hand, are gazing with sad faces, and tears run down their cheeks.  They are orphans:  he had clothed and fed them.  Hyppolito sees them, and even in that moment remembers it is he who deprives them of a protector:  but it is too late to think now; for he is approaching the scene of his fault and the place of his punishment, and other feelings swell in his heart.  His brows are contracted; his eyes bent on the house of the Bardi, as if they would pierce the stones of its walls; and now they are cast down, as though he would raise them no more on earth.  But he starts, for he hears a loud shriek, a rushing, and an opening of the crowd:  they seem to be awed by something that approaches.  It is a woman, whoso violent gestures defy opposition; she looks like a maniac just escaped from her keepers; she has reached Hyppolito; his fettered arms move as if they would receive her, but in vain.  She turns to the crowd, and some among them recognise the modest and beautiful daughter of Bardi.  She calls out:  ’He is innocent of every crime but having loved me.  To save me from shame, he has borne all this disgrace.  And he is going to death; but you cannot kill him now.  I tell you he is guiltless; and if he dies, I die with him.’

The people stand amazed.  At last there is a shout:  ’It must be true! he is innocent!’ The execution is stopped till the truth is ascertained, and Dianora’s statement is fully confirmed.  And who shall paint the return from death to life of poor Hyppolito? and to such a life! for blazoned as the story of her love had been, Dianora’s parents, considering also her firm character, subjected even the spirit of party to the voice of affection and reason; and Hyppolito’s family, softened by sorrow, gladly embraced their Ghibeline daughter.  Whether in after-life Hyppolito and Dianora were distinguished by the qualities they had shewn in youth, and whether the promise of affection was realised by time and intimate acquaintance, no chronicle remains to tell.  This short glimpse of both is all that is snatched from oblivion—­this alone stands out in bright relief, to shew us they once were; the rest is lost in the darkness of time.

The moment chosen by the artist is when Dianora rushes from her house into the midst of the crowd, and reaches Hyppolito, surrounded by priests and soldiers.  It is easy to see to what a varied expression of passion and action this point of the story gives rise.