was possessed by it as the
war-horse is possessed by the clash of sounds. No word that was not a
threat touched his consciousness; he had no fibre to be thrilled by it.
But the fierce exultant delight to which he was moved by the idea of
perpetual vengeance found at once a climax and a relieving outburst in
the preacher's words of self-sacrifice. To Baldassarre those words only
brought the vague triumphant sense that he too was devoting himself--
signing with his own blood the deed by which he gave himself over to an
unending fire, that would seem but coolness to his burning hatred.

"I rescued him--I cherished him--if I might clutch his heart-strings for
ever! Come, O blessed promise! Let my blood flow; let the fire consume
me!"

The one cord vibrated to its utmost. Baldassarre clutched his own
palms, driving his long nails into them, and burst into a sob with the
rest.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

OUTSIDE THE DUOMO.

While Baldassarre was possessed by the voice of Savonarola, he had not
noticed that another man had entered through the doorway behind him, and
stood not far off observing him. It was Piero di Cosimo, who took no
heed of the preaching, having come solely to look at the escaped
prisoner. During the pause, in which the preacher and his audience had
given themselves up to inarticulate emotion, the new-comer advanced and
touched Baldassarre on the arm. He looked round with the tears still
slowly rolling down his face, but with a vigorous sigh, as if he had
done with that outburst. The painter spoke to him in a low tone--

"Shall I cut your cords for you? I have heard how you were made
prisoner."

Baldassarre did not reply immediately; he glanced suspiciously at the
officious stranger. At last he said, "If you will."

"Better come outside," said Piero.

Baldassarre again looked at him suspiciously; and Piero, partly guessing
his thought, smiled, took out a knife, and cut the cords. He began to
think that the idea of the prisoner's madness was not improbable, there
was something so peculiar in the expression of his face. "Well," he
thought, "if he does any mischief, he'll soon get tied up again. The
poor devil shall have a chance, at least."

"You are afraid of me," he said again, in an undertone; "you don't want
to tell me anything about yourself."

Baldassarre was folding his arms in enjoyment of the long-absent
muscular sensation. He answered Piero with a less suspicious look and