We went down the Via Belle Donne and crossed a small Piazza, taking our way, said Virginia, to the Ghetto, where she thought we might be perfectly safe for the rest of the day.  There were so many hunted men there, said she, that in the confusion some must needs get away.  The curtains were drawn over the barbers’ shops, all doors were shut—­it was the hour of repose.  A few beggars sat in converse on the steps of San Michele, many were asleep in the shade, there were no passengers, no sbirri to be seen until we reached the Via Campidoglio.  Here Virginia drew me back into the shadow of a great house.  “That way is stopped.  They are watching the market.  Come, we will try something else.”  I admired her resourceful audacity, and followed whither she chose to lead.

We ran up the Via Vecchietta without disturbance or alarm, and reached the church of San Lorenzo.  We entered the cloister, which breathed the full summer, late as it was in the year.  Bees hummed about the tree; the glossy leaves of the great magnolia seemed to radiate heat and glitter; above us the sky was of almost midsummer whiteness, and I could see the heat-waves flicker above the dome.  “You shall hide in the Sagrestia to-night, if you will be ruled by me,” Virginia said.  “To-morrow morning before first Mass we will gain the Ghetto.  I know a woman there who will keep us.  My word, Don Francis, you little guess how near the Bargello you have been!”

I think she was eager for my praises, poor soul, by the shy light in her eyes—­a kind of preparation for the blushes with which she always met any warmth in my tone.  If I gave her none it was because she had displeased me by cheapening herself to the sbirri.  But I was soon ashamed of myself.

I asked her, “When did you find out that the sbirri were waiting for me?”

“The second hour of the day, it was,” she replied, “when I went out to buy milk for your chocolate.  There were but two of them then.  They asked me if you were in the house.  I said no.  They said that you had killed a frate, and I, that I was sure he had deserved it.  One of them laughed and said that had nothing to do with it; he had been sent there to be killed.  The other one, that black-browed fellow who stabbed his comrade, said nothing at all, but just looked at me hard.  He never took his eyes away once, so I guessed how his barque was steering, and you saw what wind I blew.”

“I saw it, Virginia.”

“And disapproved!  Per esempio, you disapproved!” Tears filled her eyes.  She shrugged her shoulders, pitying herself.  “Povera Virginia!” she said.

This made me ashamed enough to say, “Dear Virginia, I know that you acted for my safety.”

“Yes, I did!  Yes, I did!  But I would do worse.  Ah, you little know how bad I would make myself.  And you reproach me—­” She was on the edge of a frenzy, but checked herself.  “What does it matter now that you are safe?  We will stop in the Sagrestia all night.  They will never look for you there.”