but his speed would hardly have sufficed for him if the
Florentines had not instantaneously rushed between him and his captor.
He ran on into the piazza, but he quickly heard the tramp of feet behind
him, for the other two prisoners had been released, and the soldiers
were struggling and fighting their way after them, in such tardigrade
fashion as their hoof-shaped shoes would allow--impeded, but not very
resolutely attacked, by the people. One of the two younger prisoners
turned lip the Borgo di San Lorenzo, and thus made a partial diversion
of the hubbub; but the main struggle was still towards the piazza, where
all eyes were turned on it with alarmed curiosity. The cause could not
be precisely guessed, for the French dress was screened by the impeding
crowd.

"An escape of prisoners," said Lorenzo Tornabuoni, as he and his party
turned round just against the steps of the Duomo, and saw a prisoner
rushing by them. "The people are not content with having emptied the
Bargello the other day. If there is no other authority in sight they
must fall on the sbirri and secure freedom to thieves. Ah! there is a
French soldier: that is more serious."

The soldier he saw was struggling along on the north side of the piazza,
but the object of his pursuit had taken the other direction. That
object was the eldest prisoner, who had wheeled round the Baptistery and
was running towards the Duomo, determined to take refuge in that
sanctuary rather than trust to his speed. But in mounting the steps,
his foot received a shock; he was precipitated towards the group of
signori, whose backs were turned to him, and was only able to recover
his balance as he clutched one of them by the arm.

It was Tito Melema who felt that clutch. He turned his head, and saw
the face of his adoptive father, Baldassarre Calvo, close to his own.

The two men looked at each other, silent as death: Baldassarre, with
dark fierceness and a tightening grip of the soiled worn hands on the
velvet-clad arm; Tito, with cheeks and lips all bloodless, fascinated by
terror. It seemed a long while to them--it was but a moment.

The first sound Tito heard was the short laugh of Piero di Cosimo, who
stood close by him and was the only person that could see his face.

"Ha, ha! I know what a ghost should be now."

"This is another escaped prisoner," said Lorenzo Tornabuoni. "Who is
he, I wonder?"

"_Some madman, surely_," said Tito.

He hardly knew how the