am sped; mine enemy is at the door. The press is in Rome."

He went into the shop, and affecting nonchalance, inquired how long the
printing-press had been in Rome. The man said he believed there was no
such thing in the city. "Oh, the Lactantius; that was printed on the top
of the Apennines."

"What, did the printing-press fall down there out o' the moon?"

"Nay, messer," said the trader, laughing; "it shot up there out of
Germany. See the title-page!"

Gerard took the Lactantius eagerly, and saw the following--

Opera et impensis Sweynheim et Pannartz
Alumnorum Joannis Fust.
Impressum Subiacis. A.D. 1465.

"Will ye buy, messer? See how fair and even be the letters. Few are left
can write like that; and scarce a quarter of the price."

"I would fain have it," said Gerard sadly, "but my heart will not let
me. Know that I am a caligraph, and these disciples of Fust run after me
round the world a-taking the bread out of my mouth. But I wish them no
ill. Heaven forbid!" And he hurried from the shop.

"Dear Margaret," said he to himself, "we must lose no time; we must
make our hay while shines the sun. One month more and an avalanche of
printer's type shall roll down on Rome from those Apennines, and lay us
waste that writers be."

And he almost ran to the Princess Claelia.

He was ushered into an apartment new to him. It was not very large,
but most luxurious; a fountain played in the centre, and the floor was
covered with the skins of panthers, dressed with the hair, so that no
footfall could be heard. The room was an ante-chamber to the princess's
boudoir, for on one side there was no door, but an ample curtain of
gorgeous tapestry.

Here Gerard was left alone till he became quite uneasy, and doubted
whether the maid had not shown him to the wrong place.

These doubts were agreeably dissipated.

A light step came swiftly behind the curtain; it parted in the middle,
and there stood a figure the heathens might have worshipped. It was not
quite Venus, nor quite Minerva; but between the two; nobler than Venus,
more womanly than Jupiter's daughter. Toga, tunic, sandals; nothing was
modern. And as for beauty, that is of all times.

Gerard started up, and all the artist in him flushed with pleasure.

"Oh!" he cried innocently, and gazed in rapture.

This added the last charm to his model: a light blush tinted her cheeks,
and her eyes brightened, and her mouth smiled with delicious complacency