d half
in the dark, and by snatches, and with the poor mountebank trick of a
drawn curtain.

'Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic incredulus odi.'

Enough; the men of this day are not the men of old. Let us have done
with these new-fangled mummeries, and go among the Pope's books; there
we shall find the wisdom we shall vainly hunt in the streets of modern
Rome."

And this idea having once taken root, the good friar plunged and tore
through the crowd, and looked neither to the right hand nor to the left,
till he had escaped the glories of the holy week, which had brought
fifty thousand strangers to Rome; and had got nice and quiet among the
dead in the library of the Vatican.

Presently, going into Gerard's room, he found a hot dispute afoot
between him and Jacques Bonaventura. That spark had come in, all steel
from head to toe; doffed helmet, puffed, and railed most scornfully on a
ridiculous ceremony, at which he and his soldiers had been compelled to
attend the Pope; to wit the blessing of the beasts of burden.

Gerard said it was not ridiculous; nothing a Pope did could be
ridiculous.

The argument grew warm, and the friar stood grimly neuter, waiting like
the stork that ate the frog and the mouse at the close of their combat,
to grind them both between the jaws of antiquity; when lo, the curtain
was gently drawn, and there stood a venerable old man in a purple skull
cap, with a beard like white floss silk, looking at them with a kind
though feeble smile.

"Happy youth," said he, "that can heat itself over such matters."

They all fell on their knees. It was the Pope.

"Nay, rise, my children," said he, almost peevishly. "I came not into
this corner to be in state. How goes Plutarch?"

Gerard brought his work, and kneeling on one knee presented it to his
holiness, who had seated himself, the others standing.

His holiness inspected it with interest.

"'Tis excellently writ," said he.

Gerard's heart beat with delight.

"Ah! this Plutarch, he had a wondrous art, Francesco. How each character
standeth out alive on his page: how full of nature each, yet how unlike
his fellow!"

Jacques Bonaventura. "Give me the Signor Boccaccio."

His Holiness. "An excellent narrator, capitano, and writeth exquisite
Italian. But in spirit a thought too monotonous. Monks and nuns were
never all unchaste: one or two such stories were right pleasant and
diverting; but five score paint his time falsely, and sadden the heart