ake care of my little Roman boy. Kiss me, Joseph! Again! For
the last time! Adieu!"

"Ah, God is a good old saint. He'll take care of you, my son," said the
old woman.

"Adieu, Uncle David! Adieu, papa!" cried Joseph over the banisters, and
the brave little voice, with its manly falsetto, was the last the men
heard as they descended the stairs.

The Piazza del Popolo was densely crowded, and seemed to be twice as
large as usual. Bruno elbowed a way through for himself and Rossi until
they came to the obelisk in the centre of the great circle. On the steps
of the obelisk a company of artillery was stationed with a piece of
cannon which commanded the three principal thoroughfares of the city,
the Corso, the Ripetta, and the Babunio, which branch off from that
centre like the ribs from the handle of a fan. Without taking notice of
the soldiers, the people ranged themselves in order and prepared for
their procession. At the ringing of Ave Maria the great crowd linked in
files and turned their faces towards the Corso.

Bruno walked first, carrying from his stalwart breast a standard, on
which was inscribed, under the title of the "Republic of Man," the
words, "Give us this day our daily bread." Rossi had meant to walk
immediately behind Bruno, but he found himself encircled by a group of
his followers. No sovereign was ever surrounded by more watchful guards.

By the spontaneous consent of the public, traffic in the street was
suspended, and crowds of the people of the city had turned out to look
on. The four tiers of the Pincian Hill were packed with spectators, and
every window and balcony in the Corso was filled with faces. All the
shops were shut, and many of them were barricaded within and without. A
regiment of infantry was ranged along the edge of the pavement, and the
people passed between two lines of rifles.

As the procession went on it was constantly augmented, and the column,
which had been four abreast when it started from the Popolo, was eight
abreast before it reached the end of the Corso. There were no bands of
music, and there was no singing, but at intervals some one at the head
of the procession would begin to clap, and then the clapping of hands
would run down the street like the rattle of musketry.

Going up the narrow streets beyond the Venezia, the people passed into
the Forum--out of the living city of the present into the dead city of
the past, with its desolation and its silence, its chaos o