od in a corner, smiling foolishly, while the tears
stood in his eyes and wet his unshaven cheeks. Perhaps he cared, as
servants will, when no one else cares. The door opened almost directly
upon a staircase and the noise of the feet of those passing up and down
upon the stone steps disturbed the silence in the death chamber. At
night the poor body was thrust unhonoured into a common coach and driven
out to its resting-place.

In a vast hall, upon an enormous catafalque, full thirty feet above the
floor, lay all that was left of the honest king. Thousands of wax
candles cast their light up to the dark, shapeless face, and upon the
military accoutrements of the uniform in which the huge body was
clothed. A great crowd pressed to the railing to gaze their fill and go
away. Behind the division tall troopers in cuirasses mounted guard and
moved carelessly about. It was all tawdry, but tawdry on a magnificent
scale--all unlike the man in whose honour it was done. For he had been
simple and brave.

When he was at last borne to his tomb in the Pantheon, a file of
imperial and royal princes marched shoulder to shoulder down the street
before him, and the black charger he had loved was led after him.

In a dim chapel of St. Peter's lay the Pope, robed in white, the
jewelled tiara upon his head, his white face calm and peaceful. Six
torches burned beside him; six nobles of the guard stood like statues
with drawn swords, three on his right hand and three on his left. That
was all. The crowd passed in single file before the great closed gates
of the Julian Chapel.

At night he was borne reverently by loving hands to the deep crypt
below. But at another time, at night also, the dead man was taken up
and driven towards the gate to be buried without the walls. Then a great
crowd assembled in the darkness and fell upon the little band and stoned
the coffin of him who never harmed any man, and screamed out curses and
blasphemies till all the city was astir with riot. That was the last
funeral hymn.

Old Rome is gone. The narrow streets are broad thoroughfares, the Jews'
quarter is a flat and dusty building lot, the fountain of Ponte Sisto is
swept away, one by one the mighty pines of Villa Ludovisi have fallen
under axe and saw, and a cheap, thinly inhabited quarter is built upon
the site of the enchanted garden. The network of by-ways from the
Jesuits' church to the Sant' Angelo bridge is ploughed up and opened by
the huge Corso V