Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 9, No. 52, February, 1862 | Page 3

which form so picturesque and characteristic a feature
of the Italian landscape. But before they reached this spot, the simple,
poetic, guileless monk, with his fresh artistic nature, had so won upon
his travelling companion that a most enthusiastic friendship had sprung
up between them, and Agostino could not find it in his heart at once to
separate from him. Tempest-tossed and homeless, burning with a sense
of wrong, alienated from the faith of his fathers through his intellect

and moral sense, yet clinging to it with his memory and imagination, he
found in the tender devotional fervor of the artist monk a reconciling
and healing power. He shared, too, in no small degree, the feelings
which now possessed the breast of his companion for the great reformer
whose purpose seemed to meditate nothing less than the restoration of
the Church of Italy to the primitive apostolic simplicity. He longed to
see him,--to listen to the eloquence of which he had heard so much.
Then, too, he had thoughts that but vaguely shaped themselves in his
mind. This noble man, so brave and courageous, menaced by the forces
of a cruel tyranny, might he not need the protection of a good sword?
He recollected, too, that he had an uncle high in the favor of the King
of France, to whom he had written a full account of his own situation.
Might he not be of use in urging this uncle to induce the French King to
throw before Savonarola the shield of his protection? At all events, he
entered Florence this evening with the burning zeal of a young
neophyte who hopes to effect something himself for a glorious and
sacred cause embodied in a leader who commands his deepest
veneration.
"My son," said Father Antonio, as they raised their heads after the
evening prayer, "I am at this time like a man who, having long been,
away from his home, fears, on returning, that he shall hear some evil
tidings of those he hath left. I long, yet dread, to go to my dear Father
Girolamo and the beloved brothers in our house. There is a presage that
lies heavy on my heart, so that I cannot shake it off. Look at our
glorious old Duomo;--doth she not sit there among the houses and
palaces as a queen-mother among nations,--worthy, in her greatness
and beauty, to represent the Church of the New Jerusalem, the Bride of
the Lord? Ah, I have seen it thronged and pressed with the multitude
who came to crave the bread of life from our master!"
"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