"That I can," said Bratti.

And, talking volubly as they went, Bratti led the way to the Mercato
Vecchio, or the Old Market, promising to conduct him to the prettiest
damsel in the Mercato for a cup of milk.

But as soon as they emerged from the narrow streets into the Old Market,
they found the place packed with excited groups of men and women humming
with gossip.

"Diavolo!" said Bratti. "The Mercato has gone as mad as if the Holy
Father had excommunicated us again! I must know what this is."

He pushed about among the crowd, inquiring and disputing, and was
presently absorbed in discussing the newest development of Florentine
politics, the death of Lorenzo de Medici, and whether or not this death
was the beginning of the time of tribulation that Savonarola had been
seeing in visions and foretelling in sermons.

Indifferent to this general agitation, the young stranger became tired
of waiting for Bratti's escort, and strolling on round the piazza, felt,
on a sudden thought, in the wallet that hung at his waist.

"Not an obolus, by Jupiter!" he murmured, in a language that was not
Tuscan or even Italian. "I must get my breakfast for love, then!"

In a corner, away from any group of talkers, two mules were standing.
One carried wooden milk vessels, the other a pair of panniers filled
with herbs and salads. Resting her elbow on the mule that carried the
milk, there leaned a young girl, apparently not more than sixteen, with