[The crowd makes an ugly rush. LOR. appears likely to be dragged down and torn limb from limb, but raises one hand in nick of time, and continues:]

Yet I deserve your love.

[The yells are now variegated with dubious murmurs. A cobbler down c.

thrusts his face feverishly in the face of another and repeats, in a hoa.r.s.e interrogative whisper, 'Deserves our love?']

Not for the sundry boons I have bestow'd And benefactions I have lavished Upon Firenze, City of the Flowers, But for the love that in this rugged breast I bear you.

[The yells have now died away, and there is a sharp fall in dubious murmurs. The cobbler down c. says, in an ear-piercing whisper, 'The love he bears us,' drops his lower jaw, nods his head repeatedly, and awaits in an intolerable state of suspense the orator's next words.]

I am not a blameless man, [Some dubious murmurs.]

Yet for that I have lov'd you pa.s.sing much, Shall some things be forgiven me.

[Noises of cordial a.s.sent.]

There dwells In this our city, known unto you all, A man more virtuous than I am, and A thousand times more intellectual; Yet envy not I him, for--shall I name him?-- He loves not you. His name? I will not cut Your hearts by speaking it. Here let it stay On tip o' tongue.

[Insistent clamour.]

Then steel you to the shock!-- Savonarola.

[For a moment or so the crowd reels silently under the shock. Cobbler down c. is the first to recover himself and cry 'Death to Savonarola!'

The cry instantly becomes general. LOR. holds up his hand and gradually imposes silence.]

His twin bug-bears are Yourselves and that New Learning which I hold Less dear than only you.

[Profound sensation. Everybody whispers 'Than only you' to everybody else. A woman near steps of Loggia attempts to kiss hem of LOR.'s garment.]

Would you but con With me the old philosophers of h.e.l.las, Her fervent bards and calm historians, You would arise and say 'We will not hear Another word against them!'

[The crowd already says this, repeatedly, with great emphasis.]

Take the Dialogues Of Plato, for example. You will find A spirit far more truly Christian In them than in the ravings of the sour-soul'd Savonarola.

[Prolonged cries of 'Death to the Sour-Souled Savonarola!' Several cobblers detach themselves from the crowd and rush away to read the Platonic Dialogues. Enter SAVONAROLA. The crowd, as he makes his way through it, gives up all further control of its feelings, and makes a noise for which even the best zoologists might not find a good comparison. The staves and bill-hooks wave like twigs in a storm.

One would say that SAV. must have died a thousand deaths already. He is, however, unharmed and unruffled as he reaches the upper step of the Loggia. LOR. meanwhile has rejoined COS. in the Piazza.]

SAV.

Pax vobisc.u.m, brothers!

[This does but exacerbate the crowd's frenzy.]

VOICE OF A COBBLER Hear his false lips cry Peace when there is no Peace!

SAV.

Are not you ashamed, O Florentines, [Renewed yells, but also some symptoms of manly shame.]

That hearken'd to Lorenzo and now reel Inebriate with the exuberance Of his verbosity?

[The crowd makes an obvious effort to pull itself together.]

A man can fool Some of the people all the time, and can Fool all the people sometimes, but he cannot Fool ALL the people ALL the time.

[Loud cheers. Several cobblers clap one another on the back. Cries of 'Death to Lorenzo!' The meeting is now well in hand.]

To-day I must adopt a somewhat novel course In dealing with the awful wickedness At present noticeable in this city.

I do so with reluctance. Hitherto I have avoided personalities.

But now my sense of duty forces me To a departure from my custom of Naming no names. One name I must and shall Name.

[All eyes are turned on LOR., who smiles uncomfortably.]

No, I do not mean Lorenzo. He Is 'neath contempt.

[Loud and prolonged laughter, accompanied with hideous grimaces at LOR.

Exeunt LOR. and COS.]

I name a woman's name, [The women in the crowd eye one another suspiciously.]

A name known to you all--four-syllabled, Beginning with an L.

[Pause. Enter hurriedly LUC., carrying the ring. She stands, un.o.bserved by any one, on outskirt of crowd. SAV. utters the name:]

Lucrezia!

LUC. [With equal intensity.]

Savonarola!

[SAV. starts violently and stares in direction of her voice.]

Yes, I come, I come!

[Forces her way to steps of Loggia. The crowd is much bewildered, and the cries of 'Death to Lucrezia Borgia!' are few and sporadic.]

Why didst thou call me?

[SAV. looks somewhat embarra.s.sed.]

What is thy distress?

I see it all! The sanguinary mob Cl.u.s.ters to rend thee! As the antler'd stag, With fine eyes glazed from the too-long chase, Turns to defy the foam-fleck'd pack, and thinks, In his last moment, of some graceful hind Seen once afar upon a mountain-top, E'en so, Savonarola, didst thou think, In thy most dire extremity, of me.

And here I am! Courage! The horrid hounds Droop tail at sight of me and fawn away Innocuous.

[The crowd does indeed seem to have fallen completely under the sway of LUC.'s magnetism, and is evidently convinced that it had been about to make an end of the monk.]

Take thou, and wear henceforth, As a sure talisman 'gainst future perils, This little, little ring.

[SAV. makes awkward gesture of refusal. Angry murmurs from the crowd.

Cries of 'Take thou the ring!' 'Churl!' 'Put it on!' etc.

Enter the Borgias' FOOL and stands unnoticed on fringe of crowd.]

I hoped you 'ld like it-- Neat but not gaudy. Is my taste at fault?

I'd so look'd forward to-- [Sob.] No, I'm not crying, But just a little hurt.

[Hardly a dry eye in the crowd. Also swayings and snarlings indicative that SAV.'s life is again not worth a moment's purchase.

SAV. makes awkward gesture of acceptance, but just as he is about to put ring on finger, the FOOL touches his lute and sings:--]

Wear not the ring, It hath an unkind sting, Ding, dong, ding.

Bide a minute, There's poison in it, Poison in it, Ding-a-dong, dong, ding.

LUC.

The fellow lies.

[The crowd is torn with conflicting opinions. Mingled cries of 'Wear not the ring!' 'The fellow lies!' 'Bide a minute!' 'Death to the Fool!' 'Silence for the Fool!' 'Ding-a-dong, dong, ding!' etc.]

FOOL [Sings.]

Wear not the ring, For Death's a robber-king, Ding, [etc.]

There's no trinket Is what you think it, What you think it, Ding-a-dong, [etc.]

[SAV. throws ring in LUC.'s face. Enter POPE JULIUS II, with Papal army.]

POPE Arrest that man and woman!

[Re-enter Guelfs and Ghibellines fighting. SAV. and LUC. are arrested by Papal officers. Enter MICHAEL ANGELO. ANDREA DEL SARTO appears for a moment at a window. PIPPA pa.s.ses. Brothers of the Misericordia go by, singing a Requiem for Francesca da Rimini. Enter BOCCACCIO, BENVENUTO CELLINI, and many others, making remarks highly characteristic of themselves but scarcely audible through the terrific thunderstorm which now bursts over Florence and is at its loudest and darkest crisis as the Curtain falls.]

ACT IV

TIME: Three hours later.

SCENE: A Dungeon on the ground-floor of the Palazzo Civico.

The stage is bisected from top to bottom by a wall, on one side of which is seen the interior of LUCREZIA'S cell, on the other that of SAVONAROLA'S.

Neither he nor she knows that the other is in the next cell. The audience, however, knows this.

Each cell (because of the width and height of the proscenium) is of more than the average Florentine size, but is bare even to the point of severity, its sole amenities being some straw, a hunk of bread, and a stone pitcher. The door of each is facing the audience. Dimish light.

LUCREZIA wears long and clanking chains on her wrists, as does also SAVONAROLA. Imprisonment has left its mark on both of them. SAVONAROLA'S hair has turned white. His whole aspect is that of a very old, old man. LUCREZIA looks no older than before, but has gone mad.

SAV.

Alas, how long ago this morning seems This evening! A thousand thousand eons Are scarce the measure of the gulf betwixt My then and now. Methinks I must have been Here since the dim creation of the world And never in that interval have seen The tremulous hawthorn burgeon in the brake, Nor heard the hum o' bees, nor woven chains Of b.u.t.tercups on Mount Fiesole What time the sap lept in the cypresses, Imbuing with the friskfulness of Spring Those melancholy trees. I do forget The aspect of the sun. Yet I was born A freeman, and the Saints of Heaven smiled Down on my crib. What would my sire have said, And what my dam, had anybody told them The time would come when I should occupy A felon's cell? O the disgrace of it The scandal, the incredible come-down!

It masters me. I see i' my mind's eye The public prints--'Sharp Sentence on a Monk.'

What then? I thought I was of sterner stuff Than is affrighted by what people think.

Yet thought I so because 'twas thought of me, And so 'twas thought of me because I had A hawk-like profile and a baleful eye.