well
past, he hoped to be prepared for all emergencies by cool deceit--and
defensive armour.

It was a characteristic fact in Tito's experience at this crisis, that
no direct measures for ridding himself of Baldassarre ever occurred to
him. All other possibilities passed through his mind, even to his own
flight from Florence; but he never thought of any scheme for removing
his enemy. His dread generated no active malignity, and he would still
have been glad not to give pain to any mortal. He had simply chosen to
make life easy to himself--to carry his human lot, if possible, in such
a way that it should pinch him nowhere; and the choice had, at various
times, landed him in unexpected positions. The question now was, not
whether he should divide the common pressure of destiny with his
suffering fellow-men; it was whether all the resources of lying would
save him from being crushed by the consequences of that habitual choice.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

INSIDE THE DUO.

When Baldassarre, with his hands bound together, and the rope round his
neck and body, pushed his way behind the curtain, and saw the interior
of the Duomo before him, he gave a start of astonishment, and stood
still against the doorway. He had expected to see a vast nave empty of
everything but lifeless emblems--side altars with candles unlit, dim
pictures, pale and rigid statues--with perhaps a few worshippers in the
distant choir following a monotonous chant. That was the ordinary
aspect of churches to a man who never went into them with any religious
purpose.

And he saw, instead, a vast multitude of warm, living faces, upturned in
breathless silence towards the pulpit, at the angle between the nave and
the choir. The multitude was of all ranks, from magistrates and dames
of gentle nurture to coarsely-clad artisans and country people. In the
pulpit was a Dominican friar, with strong features and dark hair,
preaching with the crucifix in his hand.

For the first few minutes Baldassarre noted nothing of his preaching.
Silent as his entrance had been, some eyes near the doorway had been
turned on him with surprise and suspicion. The rope indicated plainly
enough that he was an escaped prisoner, but in that case the church was
a sanctuary which he had a right to claim; his advanced years and look
of wild misery were fitted to excite pity rather than alarm; and as he
stood motionless, with eyes that soon wandered absently from the wide
scen