mbition of bad ones--brought rain when there might
have been victory, still less is it to gaze upon the brilliant spectacle
of the rejoicing city, that we are now wending our way along the Arno,
scarcely stopping to notice the thousand stars that glitter on the
Duomo, nor the flickering lines of light which trace out the gigantic
tower of the Palazzo Vecchio. Our theme is more humble than the former,
and far too serious for such dalliance as the latter.

Leaving the crowded streets, resounding with the wild acclamations and
wilder songs of the people, we pass over the Ponte Vecchio, and enter
once again the dark abode of Racca Morlache. Whether from any suspicion
of his unpopularity with the people, or from some secret necessity for
precaution, the door is fastened by many an extra bolt, and more than
one massive chain retains the iron shutters of the window. Perhaps there
is something in this conscious security that has made him so sparing in
his display of external joy, for two dim, discolored lamps were all that
appeared above the door, and these were soon hurled down in contemptuous
anger by the populace, leaving the little building in total darkness.

In easy indifference to such harmless insult, and not heeding the loud
knock which, from stick or stone, the iron shutters resounded under, the
Jew sat at his table in that little chamber beside the Arno, of which
the reader already knows the secret. Several decanters of wine are
before him, and as he sips his glass and smashes his filbert, his air is
that of the very easiest unconcern.

Attempting, but with inferior success, an equal degree of calm, sits the
Abbe D'Esmonde on the opposite side of the table. With all his training,
his calm features betray at moments certain signs of anxiety, and, while
he speaks, you can see that he is listening to the noises in the street
without.

"How I detest that song!" said Morlache, as the full swell of a
deep-voiced chorus filled the air. "I verily believe the Revolution has
not inflicted us with anything more outraging to good taste than the air
of 'Viva Pio Nono.'"

"Always excepting Pio Nono himself," said D'Esmonde, "who is far more
the child than the father of this movement."

"Not bad for a priest to renounce allegiance to his holy master!" said
Racca, laughing.

"You mistake me, Signor Morlache," said D'Esmonde, eagerly. "I spoke
of Pio Nono, the politician,--the rash innovator of time-honored
institutions, the