“Ah, they gave him his morsel every day in the Stinche—that’s why he can’t do so well without it. You and I, Cecco, know better what it is to go to bed fasting.”
“ Gnaffè! that’s why the Magnificent Eight have turned out some of the prisoners, that they may shelter honest people instead. But if every thief is to be brought to life with good wine and wheaten bread, we Ciompi had better go and fill ourselves in Arno while the water’s plenty.”
Romola had seated herself on the steps by Baldassarre, and was saying, “Can you eat a little bread now? perhaps by-and-by you will be able, if I leave it with you. I must go on, because I have promised to be at the hospital. But I will come back if you will wait here, and then I will take you to some shelter. Do you understand? Will you wait? I will come back.”
He looked dreamily at her, and repeated her words, “come back.” It was no wonder that his mind was enfeebled by his bodily exhaustion, but she hoped that he apprehended her meaning. She opened her basket, which was filled with pieces of soft bread, and put one of the pieces into his hand.
“Do you keep your bread for those that can’t swallow, madonna?” said a rough-looking fellow, in a red nightcap, who had elbowed his way into the inmost circle of spectators—a circle that was pressing rather closely on Romola.
“If anybody isn’t hungry,” said another, “I say, let him alone. He’s better off than people who’ve got craving stomachs and no breakfast.”