the balcony. But there is a noise in the street, and lights
approaching; the night-guard is passing; they have seen the ladder,
for the street is narrow. Hyppolito is down, and tries to escape--in
vain. They seize and drag him to prison. What was he doing there? What
can he reply? That he meant to enter the house, to carry something
from it, or commit some bad deed, cannot be denied. He will not betray
Dianora; it would only be to separate them for ever, and leave her
with a stained name. He yields to his fate; the proofs are
irresistible, and, by the severe law of Florence at that period,
Hyppolito must die. All Florence is in amazement. So estimable a
youth, to all outward appearance, to be in reality addicted to the
basest crimes! Who could have believed it? But he confesses; there is
no room for doubt. Pardon is implored by his afflicted friends; but no
pardon can be granted for so flagrant a crime.

Hyppolito had one consolation--his father never doubted him; if he
had, one glance of his son's clear though sad eye, and candid, open
brow, would have reassured him. He saw there was a mystery, but he was
sure it involved no guilt on Hyppolito's part. Hyppolito also believed
that his good name would one day be cleared, and that his noble
Dianora would in due time remove the stain that clouded it. He
consented to die, rather than live separated from her. Yet poor
Hyppolito was sorry to leave the world so young; and sadly, though
calmly, he arranged his small possessions, for the benefit of those he
loved, and of the poor, to whom he had always been a friend.

He slept quietly the night preceding the time fixed for his execution,
and was early ready to take his place in the sad procession. Did no
thought cross Hyppolito's clear mind, that he was throwing away, in
weak passion, a life given to him by God for noble ends? We know not;
but there he was--calm, firm, and serious. His only request was, that
the procession might pass through the street of the Bardi, which some
thought was a sign of penitence, an act of humiliation. The sad train
moves on. An old man sitting at a door rises, strains his eyes to
catch a last glimpse of Hyppolito, and then covers them in anguish,
and sinks down again. This is an old man he had saved from misery and
death. Two youths, hand in hand, are gazing with sad faces, and tears
run down their cheeks. They are orphans: he had clothed and fed them.
Hyppolito sees them, and even in that moment