one to the Palazzo Vecchio: this time he had not betrayed himself
by look or movement, and he said inwardly that he should not be taken by
surprise again; he should be prepared to see this face rise up
continually like the intermittent blotch that comes in diseased vision.
But this reappearance of Baldassarre so much more in his own likeness
tightened the pressure of dread the idea of his madness lost its
likelihood now he was shaven and clad like a decent though poor citizen.
Certainly, there was a great change in his face; but how could it be
otherwise? And yet, if he were perfectly sane--in possession of all his
powers and all his learning, why was he lingering in this way before
making known his identity? It must be for the sake of making his scheme
of vengeance more complete. But he did linger: that at least gave an
opportunity for flight. And Tito began to think that flight was his
only resource.

But while he, with his back turned on the Piazza del Duomo, had lost the
recollection of the new part he had been playing, and was no longer
thinking of the many things which a ready brain and tongue made easy,
but of a few things which destiny had somehow made very difficult, the
enthusiasm which he had fed contemptuously was creating a scene in that
piazza in grand contrast with the inward drama of self-centred fear
which he had carried away from it.

The crowd, on Tito's disappearance, had begun to turn their faces
towards the outlets of the piazza in the direction of the Via Larga,
when the sight of _mazzieri_, or mace-bearers, entering from the Via de'
Martelli, announced the approach of dignitaries. They must be the
syndics, or commissioners charged with the effecting of the treaty; the
treaty must be already signed, and they had come away from the royal
presence. Piero Capponi was coming--the brave heart that had known how
to speak for Florence. The effect on the crowd was remarkable; they
parted with softening, dropping voices, subsiding into silence,--and the
silence became so perfect that the tread of the syndics on the broad
pavement, and the rustle of their black silk garments, could be heard,
like rain in the night. There were four of them; but it was not the two
learned doctors of law, Messer Guidantonio Vespucci and Messer Domenico
Bonsi, that the crowd waited for; it was not Francesco Valori, popular
as he had become in these late days. The moment belonged to another
man, of firm presence, as li