kled old men and women, the lithe,
slender youths in their suits of black broadcloth--wood gods disguised
by cheap tailoring--all had left their work and come many a mile along
the dusty roads and across fields to the town for the dear Madonna's
sake, and to see the Palio. The country girls had all new dresses for
the _Ferragosto_ and they strutted in the Via Cavour like little
pigeons pluming themselves in the sunshine. They were nearly all
pretty, and the flapping hats of Tuscan straw half hid and half
revealed charming curves of cheek and chin, little tip-tilted noses,
soft brown eyes. Many of the townsfolk were out too on this day of
days and the streets were crowded with gay, vociferous people. There
was so much to see. The old picture-gallery was free to all, and the
very beggars might go in to see the sly, pale, almond-eyed Byzantine
Madonne in their gilt frames, and Sodoma's tormented Christ at the
Pillar with the marks of French bullets in the plaster. All the
palaces too were hung with arras, flags fluttered everywhere, church
bells were ringing.

Gemma passed down a side street and went a little out of her way to
avoid the Piazza del Campo, but she had to cross the Via Ricasoli, and
the crowd was so dense there that she was forced to stand on a
doorstep for a while before she could get by.

"What are they all staring at?" she asked impatiently of a woman near
her.

"It is the horse of the _Montone_! They are taking him to be blessed
at the parish church."

The poor animal was led by the _fantino_ who was to ride him in the
race, and followed by the page. He was small and lean and grey, with
outstanding ribs and the dry scar of an old wound on his flank. The
people eyed him curiously. "An ugly beast!" "Yes, but you should see
him run when the cognac is in him."

Gemma began to be afraid that she would be late, and that He might
find the door shut and go away again, and she pushed her way through
the crowd and hurried down the Vicolo and into the house numbered
thirteen. She was very breathless, being tightly laced and unused to
so many stairs, and she stumbled a little as she crossed the
threshold. She was glad to sit down on one of the chairs by the open
window. The bare room no longer seemed conventual now that its
unaccustomed air was stirred by the movement of her fan and tainted by
the faint scent of her violet powder.

Outside, in the market-place, the country women were sitting in the
shade of