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

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 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