The Archangel put both pulpit and stoup atop of the Hospital in the
scale, but still it never stirred. Nicolas Nerli began to feel a cold
sweat bathing his brow.

"Good Sir! dear Archangel!" he asked, "are you quite certain your
balances are true?"

St. Michael replied, smiling, that they were of a different pattern from
the balances the brokers of Paris use and the money-changers of Venice,
and were precisely accurate.

"What!" sighed Nicolas Nerli, his face as white as chalk. "Duomo,
pulpit, basin, Hospital with all its beds, do they weigh no more than a
bit of straw, a pinch of down from a bird's breast?"

"See for yourself, Nicolas!" said the Archangel; "so far the weight of
your iniquities much outweighs the light load of your good works."

"Then I must go to Hell," cried the Florentine; and his teeth chattered
with horror.

"Patience, Nicolas Nerli," returned the Weigher of Souls, "patience! we
are not done yet. There is something left."

So saying, the Blessed St. Michael took the loaves of black bread the
rich man had tossed the night before to the poor beggars. He laid them
in the scale containing the good works, which instantly fell, while the
other rose, and the two scales remained level. The beam dropped neither
to right nor left, and the needle marked the exact equality of the two