Under the Loggia de Cerchi, in the heart of old Florence, in the early
morning of April 9, 1492, two men had their eyes fixed on each other.
One was looking downward with the scrutiny of curiosity; the other,
lying on the pavement, was looking upward with the startled gaze of a
suddenly awakened dreamer.

"Young man," said the standing figure, pointing to a ring on the finger
of the other, "when your chin has got a stiffer crop on it you'll know
better than to take your nap in street corners with a ring like that on
your forefinger. By the holy 'vangels, if it had been anybody but me
standing over you--but Bratti Ferravecchi is not the man to steal! Three
years ago, one San Giovanni, the saint, sent a dead body in my way--a
blind beggar, with his cap well lined with pieces. But how comes a young
man like you, with the face of Messer San Michele, to be sleeping on a
stone bed? Your tunic and hose match ill with that jewel, young man.
Anybody might say the saints had sent you a dead body; but if you took
the jewels, I hope you buried him--and you can afford a mass or two for
him into the bargain!"

Something like a painful thrill appeared to dart through the frame of
the listener, and arrest the careless stretching of his arms. But he
immediately recovered an air of indifference, took off the red Levantine
cap which hung like a great purse over his left ear, and pushing back
his long, dark brown curls, said smiling, "The fact is, I'm a stranger
in Florence, and when I came in footsore last night, I preferred
flinging myself in the corner of this hospitable porch to hunting for a
chance hostelry, which might turn out to be a nest of bloodsuckers. Can
you show me the way to a more lively quarter, where I can get a meal and
a lodging?"