ples?"

"Ay, Goro," said the dyer; "that's a question worth putting. Thou art
not such a pumpkin-head as I took thee for. Why, they might have gone
to Naples by Bologna, eh, Ser Cioni? or if they'd gone to Arezzo--we
wouldn't have minded their going to Arezzo."

"Fools! It will be for the good and glory of Florence," Ser Cioni
began. But he was interrupted by the exclamation, "Look there!" which
burst from several voices at once, while the faces were all turned to a
party who were advancing along the Via de' Cerretani.

"It's Lorenzo Tornabuoni, and one of the French noblemen who are in his
house," said Ser Cioni, in some contempt at this interruption. "He
pretends to look well satisfied--that deep Tornabuoni--but he's a
Medicean in his heart: mind that."

The advancing party was rather a brilliant one, for there was not only
the distinguished presence of Lorenzo Tornabuoni, and the splendid
costume of the Frenchman with his elaborately displayed white linen and
gorgeous embroidery; there were two other Florentines of high birth in
handsome dresses donned for the coming procession, and on the left-hand
of the Frenchman was a figure that was not to be eclipsed by any amount
of intention or brocade--a figure we have often seen before. He wore
nothing but black, for he was in mourning; but the black was presently
to be covered by a red mantle, for he too was to walk in procession as
Latin Secretary to the Ten. Tito Melema had become conspicuously
serviceable in the intercourse with the French guests, from his
familiarity with Southern Italy, and his readiness in the French tongue,
which he had spoken in his early youth; and he had paid more than one
visit to the French camp at Signa. The lustre of good fortune was upon
him; he was smiling, listening, and explaining, with his usual graceful
unpretentious ease, and only a very keen eye bent on studying him could
have marked a certain amount of change in him which was not to be
accounted for by the lapse of eighteen months. It was that change which
comes from the final departure of moral youthfulness--from the distinct
self-conscious adoption of a part in life. The lines of the face were
as soft as ever, the eyes as pellucid; but something was gone--something
as indefinable as the changes in the morning twilight.

The Frenchman was gathering instructions concerning ceremonial before
riding back to Signa, and now he was going to have a final survey of the
Piazza