rate neither rails nor prophesies against any man," said a
middle-aged personage seated at the other corner of the window; "he only
prophesies against vice. If you think that an attack on your poems,
Francesco, it is not the Frate's fault."

"Ah, he's gone into the Duomo now," said Tito, who had watched the
figure eagerly. "No, I was not under that mistake, Nello. Your Fra
Girolamo has a high nose and a large under-lip. I saw him once--he is
not handsome; but this man..."

"Truce to your descriptions!" said Cennini. "Hark! see! Here come the
horsemen and the banners. That standard," he continued, laying his hand
familiarly on Tito's shoulder,--"that carried on the horse with white
trappings--that with the red eagle holding the green dragon between his
talons, and the red lily over the eagle--is the Gonfalon of the Guelf
party, and those cavaliers close round it are the chief officers of the
Guelf party. That is one of our proudest banners, grumble as we may; it
means the triumph of the Guelfs, which means the triumph of Florentine
will, which means triumph of the popolani."

"Nay, go on, Cennini," said the middle-aged man, seated at the window,
"which means triumph of the fat popolani over the lean, which again
means triumph of the fattest popolano over those who are less fat."

"Cronaca, you are becoming sententious," said the printer; "Fra
Girolamo's preaching will spoil you, and make you take life by the wrong
handle. Trust me, your cornices will lose half their beauty if you
begin to mingle bitterness with them; that is the _maniera Tedesca_
which you used to declaim against when you came from Rome. The next
palace you build we shall see you trying to put the Frate's doctrine
into stone."

"That is a goodly show of cavaliers," said Tito, who had learned by this
time the best way to please Florentines; "but are there not strangers
among them? I see foreign costumes."

"Assuredly," said Cennini; "you see there the Orators from France,
Milan, and Venice, and behind them are English and German nobles; for it
is customary that all foreign visitors of distinction pay their tribute
to San Giovanni in the train of that gonfalon. For my part, I think our
Florentine cavaliers sit their horses as well as any of those
cut-and-thrust northerners, whose wits lie in their heels and saddles;
and for yon Venetian, I fancy he would feel himself more at ease on the
back of a dolphin. We ought to know something of ho