he courtyard, he passed through the great doorway, not the same
Tito, but nearly as brilliant as on the day when he had first entered
that house and made the mistake of falling in love with Romola. The
mistake was remedied now: the old life was cast off, and was soon to be
far behind him.

He turned with rapid steps towards the Piazza dei Mozzi, intending to
pass over the Ponte Rubaconte; but as he went along certain sounds came
upon his ears that made him turn round and walk yet more quickly in the
opposite direction. Was the mob coming into Oltrarno? It was a
vexation, for he would have preferred the more private road. He must
how go by the Ponte Vecchio; and unpleasant sensations made him draw his
mantle close round him, and walk at his utmost speed. There was no one
to see him in that grey twilight. But before he reached the end of the
Via de' Bardi, like sounds fell on his ear again, and this time they
were much louder and nearer. Could he have been deceived before? The
mob must be coming over the Ponte Vecchio. Again he turned, from an
impulse of fear that was stronger than reflection; but it was only to be
assured that the mob was actually entering the street from the opposite
end. He chose not to go back to his house: after all they would not
attack _him_. Still, he had some valuables about him; and all things
except reason and order are possible with a mob. But necessity does the
work of courage. He went on towards the Ponte Vecchio, the rush and the
trampling and the confused voices getting so loud before him that he had
ceased to hear them behind.

For he had reached the end of the street, and the crowd pouring from the
bridge met him at the turning and hemmed in his way. He had not time to
wonder at a sudden shout before he felt himself surrounded, not, in the
first instance, by an unarmed rabble, but by armed Compagnacci; the next
sensation was that his cap fell off, and that he was thrust violently
forward amongst the rabble, along the narrow passage of the bridge.
Then he distinguished the shouts, "Piagnone! Medicean! Piagnone!
Throw him over the bridge!"

His mantle was being torn off him with strong pulls that would have
throttled him if the fibula had not given way. Then his scarsella was
snatched at; but all the while he was being hustled and dragged; and the
snatch failed--his scarsella still hung at his side. Shouting, yelling,
half motiveless execration rang stunningly in his ea