Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 9, No. 52, February, 1862 | Page 4

rich voice which had
thrilled so many thousand Italian hearts with its music. "So you are
come back to the fold again. How goes the good work of the Lord?"
"Well, everywhere," said Father Antonio; and then, recollecting his
young friend, he suddenly turned and said,--
"Let me present to you one son who comes to seek your
instructions,--the young Signor Agostino, of the noble house of
Sarelli."
The Superior turned to Agostino with a movement full of a generous
frankness, and warmly extended his hand, at the same time fixing upon
him the mesmeric glance of a pair of large, deep blue eyes, which
might, on slight observation, have been mistaken for black, so great
was their depth and brilliancy.
Agostino surveyed his new acquaintance with that mingling of
ingenuous respect and curiosity with which an ardent young man would
regard the most distinguished leader of his age, and felt drawn to him
by a certain atmosphere of vital cordiality such as one can feel better
than describe.
"You have ridden far to-day, my son,--you must be weary," said the
Superior, affably,--"but here you must feel yourself at home; command
us in anything we can do for you. The brothers will attend to those
refreshments which are needed after so long a journey; and when you
have rested and supped, we shall hope to see you a little more quietly."
So saying, he signed to one or two brothers who stood by, and,
commending the travellers to their care, left the apartment.
In a few moments a table was spread with a plain and wholesome

repast, to which the two travellers sat down with appetites sharpened by
their long journey.
During the supper, the brothers of the convent, among whom Father
Antonio had always been a favorite, crowded around him in a state of
eager excitement.
"You should have been here the last week," said one; "such a turmoil as
we have been in!"
"Yes," said another,--"the Pope hath set on the Franciscans, who, you
know, are always ready enough to take up with anything against our
order, and they have been pursuing our father like so many hounds."
"There hath been a whirlwind of preaching here and there," said a
third,--"in the Duomo, and Santa Croce, and San Lorenzo; and they
have battled to and fro, and all the city is full of it."
"Tell him about yesterday, about the ordeal," shouted an eager voice.
Two or three voices took up the story at once, and began to tell it,--all
the others correcting, contradicting, or adding incidents. From the
confused fragments here and there Agostino gathered that there had
been on the day before a popular spectacle in the grand piazza, in
which, according to an old superstition of the Middle Ages, Frà
Girolamo Savonarola and his opponents were expected to prove the
truth of their words by passing unhurt through the fire; that two
immense piles of combustibles had been constructed with a narrow
passage between, and the whole magistracy of the city convened, with a
throng of the populace, eager for the excitement of the spectacle; that
the day had been spent in discussions, and scruples, and preliminaries;
and that, finally, in the afternoon, a violent storm of rain arising had
dispersed the multitude and put a stop to the whole exhibition.
"But the people are not satisfied," said Father Angelo; "and there are
enough mischief-makers among them to throw all the blame on our
father."

"Yes," said one, "they say he wanted to burn the Holy Sacrament,
because he was going to take it with him into the fire."
"As if it could burn!" said another voice.
"It would to all human appearance, I suppose," said a third.
"Any way," said a fourth, "there is some mischief brewing; for here is
our friend Prospero Rondinelli just come in, who says, when he came
past the Duomo, he saw people gathering, and heard them threatening
us: there were as many as two hundred, he thought."
"We ought to tell Father Girolamo," exclaimed several voices.
"Oh, he will not be disturbed!" said Father Angelo. "Since these affairs,
he hath been in prayer in the chapter-room before the blessed
Angelico's picture of the Cross. When we would talk with him of these
things, he waves us away, and says only, 'I am weary; go and tell
Jesus.'"
"He bade me come to him after supper," said Father Antonio. "I will
talk with him."
"Do so,--that is right," said two or three eager voices, as the monk and
Agostino, having finished their repast, arose to be conducted to the
presence of the father.

CHAPTER XXI
.
THE ATTACK ON SAN MARCO.
They found him in a large and dimly lighted apartment, sitting
absorbed in pensive contemplation before a picture of