ast morning of the Carnival, and every
one knew there was a second Bonfire of Vanities being prepared in front
of the Old Palace; but at this hour it was evident that the centre of
popular interest lay elsewhere.

The Piazza di San Marco was filled by a multitude who showed no other
movement than that which proceeded from the pressure of new-comers
trying to force their way forward from all the openings: but the front
ranks were already close-serried and resisted the pressure. Those ranks
were ranged around a semicircular barrier in front of the church, and
within this barrier were already assembling the Dominican Brethren of
San Marco.

But the temporary wooden pulpit erected over the church-door was still
empty. It was presently to be entered by the man whom the Pope's
command had banished from the pulpit of the Duomo, whom the other
ecclesiastics of Florence had been forbidden to consort with, whom the
citizens had been forbidden to hear on pain of excommunication. This
man had said, "A wicked, unbelieving Pope who has gained the pontifical
chair by bribery is not Christ's Vicar. His curses are broken swords:
he grasps a hilt without a blade. His commands are contrary to the
Christian life: it is lawful to disobey them--nay, _it is not lawful to
obey them_." And the people still flocked to hear him as he preached in
his own church of San Marco, though the Pope was hanging terrible
threats over Florence if it did not renounce the pestilential schismatic
and send him to Rome to be "converted"--still, as on this very morning,
accepted the Communion from his excommunicated hands. For how if this
Frate had really more command over the Divine lightnings than that
official successor of Saint Peter? It was a momentous question, which
for the mass of citizens could never be decided by the Frate's ultimate
test, namely, what was and what was not accordant with the highest
spiritual law. No: in such a case as this, if God had chosen the Frate
as his prophet to rebuke the High Priest who carried the mystic raiment
unworthily, he would attest his choice by some unmistakable sign. As
long as the belief in the Prophet carried no threat of outward calamity,
but rather the confident hope of exceptional safety, no sign was needed:
his preaching was a music to which the people felt themselves marching
along the way they wished to go; but now that belief meant an immediate
blow to their commerce, the shaking of their position