As Tito looked round him during this appeal, there was a change in some of his audience very much like the change in an eager dog when he is invited to smell something pungent. Since the question of burning was becoming practical, it was not everyone who would rashly commit himself to any general view of the relation between faith and fire. The scene might have been too much for a gravity less under command than Tito’s.
“Then, Messer Segretario,” said the young sculptor, “it seems to me Fra Francesco is the greater hero, for he offers to enter the fire for the truth, though he is sure the fire will burn him.”
“I do not deny it,” said Tito, blandly. “But if it turns out that Fra Francesco is mistaken, he will have been burned for the wrong side, and the Church has never reckoned such victims to be martyrs. We must suspend our judgment until the trial has really taken place.”
“It is true, Messer Segretario,” said the shopkeeper, with subdued impatience. “But will you favour us by interpreting the Latin?”
“Assuredly,” said Tito. “It does but express the conclusions or doctrines which the Frate specially teaches, and which the trial by fire is to prove true or false. They are doubtless familiar to you. First, that Florence—”
“Let us have the Latin bit by bit, and then tell us what it means,” said the shoemaker, who had been a frequent hearer of Fra Girolamo.
“Willingly,” said Tito, smiling. “You will then judge if I give you the right meaning.”
“Yes, yes; that’s fair,” said Goro.
“Ecclesia Dei indiget renovatione; that is, the Church of God needs purifying or regenerating.”
“It is true,” said several voices at once.
“That means, the priests ought to lead better lives; there needs no miracle to prove that. That’s what the Frate has always been saying,” said the shoemaker.
“Flagellabitur,” Tito went on. “That is, it will be scourged. Renovabitur: it will be purified. Florentia quoque post flagellam renovabitur et prosperabitur: Florence also, after the scourging, shall be purified and shall prosper.”
“That means we are to get Pisa again,” said the shopkeeper.
“And get the wool from England as we used to do, I should hope,” said an elderly man, in an old-fashioned biretta, who had been silent till now. “There’s been scourging enough with the sinking of the trade.”
At this moment, a tall personage, surmounted by a red feather, issued from the door of the convent, and exchanged an indifferent glance with Tito; who, tossing his becchetto carelessly over his left shoulder, turned to his reading again, while the bystanders, with more timidity than respect, shrank to make a passage for Messer Dolfo Spini.
“Infideles convertentur ad Christum,” Tito went on. “That is, the infidels shall be converted to Christ.”
“Those are the Turks and the Moors. Well, I’ve nothing to say against that,” said the shopkeeper, dispassionately.
“Haec autem omnia erunt temporibus nostris: and all these things shall happen in our times.”
“Why, what use would they be else?” said Goro.
“Excommunicato nuper lata contra Reverendum Patrem nostrum Fratrem Hieronymum nulla est: the excommunication lately pronounced against our reverend father, Fra Girolamo, is null. Non observantes eam non peccant: those who disregard it are not committing a sin.”
“I shall know better what to say to that when we have had the Trial by Fire,” said the shopkeeper.
“Which doubtless will clear up everything,” said Tito. “That is all the Latin—all the conclusions that are to be proved true or false by the trial. The rest you can perceive is simply a proclamation of the Signoria in good Tuscan, calling on such as are eager to walk through the fire, to come to the Palazzo and subscribe their names. Can I serve you further? If not—”
Tito, as he turned away, raised his cap and bent slightly, with so easy an air that the movement seemed a natural prompting of deference.
He quickened his pace as he left the Piazza, and after two or three turnings he paused in a quiet street before a door at which he gave a light and peculiar knock. It was opened by a young woman whom he chucked under the chin as he asked her if the Padrone was within, and he then passed, without further ceremony, through another door which stood ajar on his right-hand. It admitted him into a handsome but untidy room, where Dolfo Spini sat playing with a fine staghound which alternately snuffed at a basket of pups and licked his hands with that affectionate disregard of her master’s morals sometimes held to be one of the most agreeable attributes of her sex. He just looked up as Tito entered, but continued his play, simply from that disposition to persistence in some irrelevant action, by which slow-witted sensual people seem to be continually counteracting their own purposes. Tito was patient.
“A handsome bracca that,” he said, quietly, standing with his thumbs in his belt. Presently he added, in that cool liquid tone which seemed mild, but compelled attention, “When you have finished such caresses as cannot possibly be deferred, my Dolfo, we will talk of business, if you please. My time, which I could wish to be eternity at your service, is not entirely my own this morning.”
“Down, Mischief, down!” said Spini, with sudden roughness. “Malediction!” he added, still more gruffly, pushing the dog aside; then, starting from his seat, he stood close to Tito, and put a hand
