V.

The streets of Florence presented a wild and tumultuous scene in the

pale gray of the morning. The bells from the cathedral church of Santa

Maria del Fiore, and from the venerable towers of the church of the

Apostoli, tolled incessantly, while from the market-place and

town-house, as well as from the multitude of smaller chapels, the din

was fearfully augmented. The shrill cry “to arms!” resounded every

where. From the tall towers of the noble, from the windows of the

citizen’s house—aye, from hut and hovel, waved the flag of the ancient

republic. The rabble, armed with such imperfect weapons as haste and

rage could supply, wandered in confused masses through every lane and

thoroughfare, in pursuit of the instruments of the duke’s cruelty. Armed

bands of horsemen patrolled the city. The burghers of the town, inured

to military discipline, and trained to break opposing squadrons with the

spear, were ranged, each man under the respective banner of his ward.

Barriers were thrown up at the end of every street to break the charge

of the duke’s cavalry. Adimari and the Medici rode at the head of their

mailed retainers, displaying their armorial bearings, through every

ward, cheering and animating the citizens. The ducal soldiery, scattered

through the city, and unprepared for such an emergency, were endeavoring

to regain the palace, but many were seized and stripped of their armour,

by the vigilance of Pino D’Rossi and his associates. In front of the

palace was collected a blood-thirsty mob, in overwhelming numbers,

pouring from lane and alley, among which cross bows and mangonels of the

soldiery from the windows, scarce seemed to take effect, so fast were

those who fell replaced by throngs of the living. The cry of “death!

death!” was yelled out on every hand. Women thronged the windows of the

grand square, repeating the cry, and throwing weapons to the crowd

below. Many of the lesser minions of the duke were seized; some in

female apparel, endeavoring to escape, were rent in pieces by the

vindictive Florentines, with circumstances of horrible ferocity. In the

height of the uproar, a knight, mounted upon a barbed steed, and covered

with a gold and ivory pointed shield, his page being seated behind him,

was seen dashing along at full speed toward the city gates.

“Ho!” cried Bindo Altoviti, “what guard keep ye here, archers? Draw to

the head, and send me yon Frenchman back to his own country, feathered

for his flight with a goose-wing of Florence!”

A shower of arrows were directed against the fugitives, two of which

took effect, and the knight, with his page, fell to the ground. The

people pursued and caught the flying steed, crying, “thanks to the good

duke for the gift! Oh! the Florentine people for ever!”

Adimari and Medici, with their train, rode up at the instant.

“What cavalier is yon?” asked Adimari. “Some one examine him, that we

may know if he deserve honorable burial. God forbid we should deny that,

even to a foe.”

Pompeo Medici rode up, attended by an esquire, to the bodies, and

dismounting, unlaced the helmet of the fallen cavalier, across whom the

body of the page was extended, as if to protect the form of his master.

The dying man turned his countenance to Medici, and with a shudder, fell

back dead in an unavailing effort to speak.

“Ha! St. John! whom have we here?” cried Pompeo. “Noble Adimari, view

these corpses. My thoughts were not in error. And the page too—”

“By the cross of St. Peter!” said Adimari, “it is no other than the

Count Ugolino, and the page is—?”

“Rosabelle De Brienne.”

A deep cloud of sorrow shaded the countenance of Adimari.

“By San Giovanni!” said he, “I sorely mistrusted this. This is that

love, stronger than death. Noble Ugolino, an ill-fate hath attended

thee! This then hast been the cause of thy desertion, but, by my faith,

I cannot blame thee, for thy lady hast the fairest face I ever looked

upon.”

“Peace be with their souls!” said Medici. “Death ends all feuds. Cover

their faces, and see that they be laid, side by side, in the chapel of

the Virgin, with such ceremonies as their high stations demand. Myself

shall be, if I live, chief mourner at this burial. Donato, be it thy

care to have their bodies conveyed to the Convent of Mercy.”

The siege of the palace continued from day to day. Famine began to gnaw

the vitals of the French soldiery, and fixed her tooth, sharper than the

sword, beneath each iron cuirass. Rage without and hunger within,

popular clamor and mutinous murmurings, accumulated the distress of the

duke. In this emergency, he sent the Comte D’Hunteville, his almost only

virtuous follower, to intercede with the Florentines, and to make

honorable terms of capitulation. Adimari would hearken to no proposals,

unless Giulio and Ippolito D’Assisi, and Cerettieri Visdomini, the chief

agents of oppression, were delivered into the hands of the people.

Gualtieri, impelled by a sense of honor, refused to accede to this

demand. Thrice did the chief of the _balia_, the bishop, and the

Siennese envoys, urge to the duke the impossibility of maintaining the

palace, and the necessity of complying with the popular will. They met

with reiterated denial. The soldiers then sent a corporal to entreat the

duke to submission. Their suit was dismissed with scorn. Then did the

soldiers crowd, with frowning faces and clashing arms, the chamber of

the duke, with the memorable words, “lord duke, choose between these

three heads and your own.” Urged by imperious necessity, worn out with

famine, and watching, and clamor, Gualtieri, at last, gave a tacit

acquiescence to the delivery of his favorites, and the pangs which his

proud spirit felt at this ignominious humiliation were far more bitter

than any of the tortures which he had inflicted upon the objects of his

tyranny. Shall I record the doom of the victims? Is it not written in

the chronicles of the Florentine republic? They were torn in pieces by

the howling multitude, and their flesh actually devoured, even while

their palpitating limbs were quivering in the agonies of death!

Quiet was once more restored to the city by the expulsion of the duke

and his followers. The chapel of the Convent of Mercy, hung with black,

and faintly lighted by dim and funeral tapers, was prepared for the last

death rites of Ugolino and of his lady. Around the bier, where reposed

the coffined forms of the dead, were gathered the noblest of Florence,

and crowds of the common sort thronged the sacred edifice. The last

notes of the pealing requiem died away. The solemn priest sprinkled the

holy water, and the last prayer for the dead passed from his lips. The

rites were ended, and amid the tears of that noble assemblage the marble

jaws of the tomb closed for ever upon the bodies of those, in whom love

had indeed been stronger than death.

Still does their sad tale exist among the legends of Florence, and the

youths and maidens of that ancient town yet consecrate a tear to the

inscription which records the loves and fate of Count Ugolino and of

Rosabelle De Brienne. Yet indeed “death can only take away the sorrowful

from our affections: the flower expands: the colorless film that

enveloped it falls off and perishes.”

Mount Savage, Md. May, 1841.

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