e points of their moustaches, riddling the
latticed windows with killing glances, following the procession in an
absent-minded way, and interrupting the holy hymns with scraps of most
unorthodox conversation.

"Did you notice, my dear Doria, how like a monkey the old Marchesa
d'Acquasparta takes her raspberry ice?"

"Her nose takes the colour of the ice. What fine bird is showing off to
her?"

"It is the Cyrenian."

"I beg your pardon! I have not seen that name in the Golden Book."

"He helps the poor marquis to bear his cross."

The officer's profane allusion was lost in the prolonged murmur of
admiration that suddenly rose from the crowd, and every gaze was turned
upon one of the young girls who was strewing flowers before the holy
Madonna. She was an exquisite creature. Her head glowing in the sun
shine, her feet hidden amid roses and broom-blossom, she rose, tall and
fair, from a pale cloud of incense, like some seraphic apparition. Her
hair, of velvet blackness, fell in curls half-way down her shoulders; her
brow, white as alabaster and polished as a mirror, reflected the rays of
the sun; her beautiful and finely arched black eye-brows melted into the
opal of her temples; her eyelids were fast down, and the curled black
fringe of lashes veiled a glowing and liquid glance of divine emotion;
the nose, straight, slender, and cut by two easy nostrils, gave to her
profile that character of antique beauty which is vanishing day by day
from the earth. A calm and serene smile, one of those smiles that have
already left the soul and not yet reached the lips, lifted the corners of
her mouth with a pure expression of infinite beatitude and gentleness.
Nothing could be more perfect than the chin that completed the faultless
oval of this radiant countenance; her neck of a dead white, joined her
bosom in a delicious curve, and supported her head gracefully like the
stalk of a flower moved by a gentle breeze. A bodice of crimson velvet
spotted with gold outlined her delicate and finely curved figure, and
held in by means of a handsome gold lace the countless folds of a full
and flowing skirt, that fell to her feet like those severe robes in which
the Byzantine painters preferred to drape their angels. She was indeed a
marvel, and so rare and modest of beauty had not been seen within the
memory of man.

Among those who had gazed most persistently at her was observed the young
Prince of Brancaleone, one of the forem