The aspect of Florence, surveyed from the crags of Fiesole, or from that gentler eyrie of Bellosguardo, is one of the most enchanting visions open to the eye of man, so cunningly have art and nature joined their webbing; but that which can be harvested upon the road from Prato is not at all extraordinary. Suburb there succeeds to dirty suburb, the roads are quags or deep in dust, the company as disagreeable as it is mean. Approaching the city from that side, you neither know that within a short mile of you are the dome of Brunelleschi, the Tower of Giotto, the David of Michael Angelo—nor do you greatly care. At least I did not, being sadly out of spirits, upon that day of rain, steam and weariness, when, with the young Virginia springing by my side, I limped within the Porta al Prato and stood upon the sacred soil of the Second Athens. Quick to feel impressions, too quick to read in them signs and portents, I felt fatality press upon my brows.

A little way beyond that Porta al Prato, within the walls, there was, and still is, I believe, a broad neglected field—ragged grass and broken potsherds—surrounded on three sides out of four by shabby houses, taverns and garden walls. It was called the Prato, and by the shocking discrepancy between its name and appearance added to my dejection, for the one recalled and the other mocked memories of that green and sunlit plain in Padua, that dear Pra della Valle, upon whose grassy dimples looked the house of Aurelia, and to whose wandering winds I had so often sighed her name. Here, however, the Marchese Corsini had a casino and loggia, here stood in rows the country coaches from the north and west, awaiting their times of departure; here the Florentines used to hold their horse-races of St. John's day, and here, finally, you could be robbed, strangled or stabbed any night of the year. Yet it boasted at least two convents of nuns among its border of untidy buildings, and was destined, before long, to become of supreme interest to myself. Virginia the shrewd knew that, although I did not.

As we passed for the first time in our lives over the littered, disconsolate spot where, in the heavy rain, a pack of ruffians and drabs were sprawling, she took care to point out one of those two convents—a plain yellow house, closely shuttered, and by its side the red roof and rickety cross of the church appurtenant. "That," she said, "is the Convent of SS. Maria and Giuseppe sul Prato. Mark the house. You should look there for your Donna Aurelia."

My dejection held me fast; the rain, the heavy air and fog of Florence, this vile Prato and its company of tumbling, scuffling wretches loaded me with an apathy impossible to shake off. "Why there?" I asked her languidly. "Why anywhere within these fatal walls?"

"If, as you suppose and I do not suppose, she has taken shelter in a convent," Virginia replied, "it will be in that convent. That society is wholly of Siena. All the Sienese, arriving in Florence (and in need of such shelter) go thither. I am sure there is not a woman behind those walls who cannot tell you what 'l' andare a Provenzano' means—and most of them by more than hearsay. Yes, yes. Either she is there, or she will be there before long—always supposing that she is miserable. For my part, I have never disguised from your honour my belief that she is not so miserable as you flatter yourself."

"Aurelia can have no place here," said I heavily. "This is a fatal place. I shall find her in Siena, and am minded to go there this very day."

Better for me to have done so; but "Florence lies dead in her road," Virginia persisted, "and by the time she had reached it she would be very ready for one of the two things Florence affords."

"And what are they, Virginia?" Her oracular moods always interested me, consorting so oddly with her youth.

"Pleasure or religion," said she, and would explain herself no further.

Pleasure or religion! It would have needed a greater than the Pythian Priestess to have given me hopes of either in Florence. And yet, as we pursued our way, by the Borg' Ognissanti towards the river, I could not but be struck by the subdued aspect of the citizens, who, far from being the lively impertinents they had been reputed, went gravely and silently about their business, cloaked in sombre black. They did not stand, as Italians love to do, grouped in the piazzas, chattering, gesticulating and acting as much for their own amusement as for their hearers'; nor did they crowd the chocolate-houses, where, as a rule, the very flies are buzzing the news. It seemed to me that church doors alone stood open.

There were few ladies abroad, and such as we saw were on the steps of the churches, going in or coming out, and hardly one of them but had a frate—sometimes two, once four—in her company. The number of religious was exorbitant, and even more remarkable was it to observe the respect in which they were held. Every woman, meeting one, dropped him a curtsey, every man saluted him. My gentleman, if you please, hardly gave himself the trouble of acknowledging the grace. I saw a couple of Theatines scolding a poor lady to tears; I saw another shake off a fine gentleman, who ran after him to kiss his hand. I saw beggars, cripples, sick men in litters, hold out their prayers in vain. I grew justly indignant. "Florence is the place for Fra Palamone," I said to Virginia with bitter foreboding, "rather than for you and me. It is horrible to think of Aurelia, with her dutiful regard for the saintly calling, bending her knees to these arrogant rascals."

"'Bacchetoni e colli torti,
Tutti il diavol se li porti!'"

said Virginia with scornful nostrils. "Here you see the end of a nation which shares your pietistical aptitudes. You think you have God by the foot when you have the devil by the tail."

"It is true," I agreed, sighing, "that the more I seek after God and His fairest creature, the more I am encumbered by these distorted botches of His design. This town swarms with frati."

"What will you find on a carrion but flies?" cried she. "The Grand Duke is rotting on his bed, and these are the vermin about him. Before long he will be dust, and then it will be the turn of Don Gastone, and frati will give place to cicisbei. Maybe that you won't find them any more to your liking."

"I shall leave Florence," I told her, "so soon as I am assured of Aurelia's escape from it." I heard her sniff of scorn, but did not care to reprove her.

It was not so easy to leave it as to reach it, I found out. I had not been two hours in my chosen lodging—a decent place enough—before I had a visit from the Holy Office. The terrified landlord ushered three clerics into my room: two of them Dominicans with forms as big as flags to be filled up from my papers! The reader knows that I had no papers. The only passport I had ever had was destroyed; I had no calling but that of pilgrim, with which, as I could not but see, Virginia's presence consorted oddly; and the objects of my pilgrimage, as I had learned by painful experience, were not such as would commend themselves to the Inquisition. But while I hesitated, Virginia jumped headlong into the breach.

A flush of seraphic mildness suffused her cheeks, her eyes sparkled like diamonds upon a Madonna's crown, she crossed her arms over her bosom and bowed her head. "Most reverend sirs," she said, "you see before you two innocents whose only faults are youth and ardent imagination. Attracted by the splendour of these shrines—pilgrims to the holy places— travellers hopeful of Heaven's gate—-"

The elder of the two Dominicans, a pock-marked, long-faced, bitter man, at once said that he saw before him nothing of the kind. "We see," he continued, "a young man of foreign aspect, obviously confused, and you, my girl, who are too glib by half. If you can prove your innocence to our satisfaction we shall be agreeably surprised."

Virginia, thus rudely checked in what would no doubt have proved a generous career of falsehood, shuddered and bit her lip. Her crossed arms relaxed, but her fists clenched themselves. She frowned and looked dangerous. My temper none of the best, I took a step forward and addressed the company.

"Sirs," I said plainly, "my passport is lost, and as it was a false one it would have availed me nothing. I shall tell you the truth—that I am by birth an Englishman of your own religion, and was until lately a student of Padua. While there I had the fortunate misfortune to be subjugated by the charms of my tutor's lovely wife—fortunate in that she raised my soul to the heights, horribly unfortunate in that I (presumptuous wretch!) dared to draw her down into peril. You may spare your reproaches, for I assure you they cannot sharpen mine. She suffered undeservedly, and I am vowed to her satisfaction. I have entered your master's dominions, without objection, in pursuit of a pious intention, that, namely, of making amends to a virtuous and innocent lady. I have brought this young woman with me—a Tuscan, who needs no passport, I believe—under the influence of another pious intention. She has been in danger of ruin, and I believe I have saved her from it. I do not disguise from you, as you see, that I have sinned very grievously; but I ask you to accept my assurance that I am on the road to repentance. If you choose to apply to the accredited Minister of my country you will no doubt receive satisfactory evidence of my standing in the world. Whatsoever I may deserve from her against whom I have trespassed, I have done no harm to you or your master. I am not accustomed to have my word doubted, and shall take no steps at all to support it from outside. I wish you very well, and beg you to excuse me. I am but newly come to Florence, and confess to fatigue."

I ended here, because I saw that further discussion would be fruitless. The officers, it is true, had listened to me gravely, without any kind of expression; their eyes had been fixed upon the floor, or the wall; they might have been statues. But at the close of my periods, one of them, a stout, breathless and foolish-looking priest, asked me, as if I had said nothing at all, "But where are your papers?"

Virginia gave a sharp cry, and I was certainly taken aback. "Reverend sir," I said, as calmly as I was able, "I had hoped to have explained—- "

The pock-marked Dominican took up the tale. "It is true, you have explained; but you have not produced your papers. Explanations apart from papers are of little or no value."

"Explanations," said I, "of the absence of papers are surely more valuable than the absence of papers and explanations alike. I repeat that my own passport is lost, and that my companion needs none."

"I have now listened to your companion and to you," replied the Dominican. "The reasons which, on your showing, have prompted you to visit Florence are connected with sin. These are not creditable reasons, and explain nothing. I must again ask you, where are your papers?"

Virginia, exasperated, threw up her arms and called on the Madonna. "Our papers! Just Heaven, how often is he to tell you that he has none?"

"This is idle questioning," said I. "I cannot give you more than explanations, because I have nothing more. You will make me regret even so much complaisance."

"But," said the breathless priest, with a comical look awry, "But this is very serious. How are we to fill up these forms if we have no papers?"

"I cannot help you," I said.

Here it was the turn of the third officer, and second Dominican. He was a fat-faced man with a perpetual smile. "You have done very wrongly, both of you," he said, looking as if he loved the thought.

I said, "I have admitted it."

"Silence," said he. "The Holy Office cannot excuse a breach of the laws of which it is the guardian."

"I break no laws, sir," cried I. "At least none that are under your care."

"Silence," said the Dominican. "I cannot believe a word that you say.
Speak you, young woman, and speak the truth. Of what nation are you?"

Virginia looked him squarely in the face. "I am a subject of the Grand
Duke's, father. I am of Siena."

She had her reasons for the fib, but, not knowing what they were at the moment, I started violently, and the inquisitor turned upon me.

"Do you, young man, wish to make any remark?"

"I wish to say—-" I began.

The Dominican turned to his colleagues. "He denies that she is of Siena; therefore, probably she has spoken the truth. We will inscribe her so. Will you now tell us," he asked Virginia, "of what nation is this young man?"

She replied, "He also has spoken the truth. He comes from Padua."

"From Padua!" cried the pock-marked officer; and the breathless priest tossed up his hands, echoing, "A Venetian subject!"

"You are wrong," I said, "I am an English subject."

"Silence," said the stern Dominican, "you are now inscribed as a Venetian subject. A Venetian subject! From a country of profligacies and indescribable laxity of manners! A Venetian! A comedian!"

"I am neither," said I; "but I must observe that it is open to a
Venetian (if such I were), in a time of profound peace, to enter this
State."

"A comedian!" said the smiling Dominican in a whisper. I grew red with vexation.

"Sir, sir," I reproved him, "you are making me a comedian against my will."

These things, however, being duly inscribed against me, the more severe officer took up his parable. "The Grand Duke," he said, "is clement, the Holy Office very patient, but there are bounds. The laws must in all cases be observed. In this case I suspect the worst. Pray, are you two living in sin?"

Virginia cried, "Oh, father!" and the fact was immediately inscribed; but now I was furious.

"You break all bounds—you who talk of bounds. You are an abominable man."

The priest interposed his person and held up his fat hand. "These prevarications, this violence will not help you. It is idle to deny the evidence of our eyes, ears, understanding. You—a Venetian, a comedian! I assure you that you are in a very serious position.."

The landlord raised his hands and let them down with a clatter against his thighs. I was silent, Virginia alarmed, while the officers consulted together in low murmurs, and the priest filled up the rest of his forms out of his own head. Presently the tall Dominican addressed us over his spectacles as follows: "You have shown us no reasons whatsoever for believing a word that you say. Your denial of the relationship in which you obviously stand to one another is extremely flagrant. Nothing but your youth and the comparative candour of the female stand as your advocates. Thanks to them, and to them alone, we have decided to be more patient with you than your contumacy deserves. Pending further inquiries, which, I promise you, shall be made in Venice, you, young man, will be lodged with the Jesuit Fathers; and you, girl, who report yourself as of Siena, will be placed in charge of the nuns of SS. Maria e Giuseppe sul Prato until you can be safely returned to your nation. That, let me tell you, will not be until you have shown signs of a less hardened disposition. You will accompany us at once. The seal of the Inquisition shall be placed upon your effects, which seem trifling. The landlord is warned that he stands in danger of legal process."

Thus were my unhappy prognostications speedily fulfilled! I was helpless and knew it. For a second time those whose dignified office it was to personify the charity of our Redeemer showed themselves the least charitable of mankind. I was chewing the sour cud of these reflections when I heard Virginia thanking the officers for their paternal resolves in her regard. Strange girl! She thanked Heaven, on her knees, for their pious mission, promised them remembrance in her prayers, asked to be allowed to kiss their hands. This being permitted, was performed to my great disgust, who saw myself disbelieved because I had spoken the truth, and her believed because she had lied. But when she was allowed, as a grace, to bid me goodbye, and came to me and put her arms round my neck and kissed my cheeks, crying aloud, "Farewell, thou dear companion of my shame! Do well, fulfil the pious purposes of these fathers; be sure of me, sure of thyself!" and when I was about to reprove her smartly for her hypocrisy, she quickly whispered in my ear, "Did you read my falsehood? I am to be put where Aurelia will surely come. Courage—I will find her—trust your Virginia"—and filled me with confusion. I pressed her hands—the true friend that she was; for a moment she clung to me with passion. "Forget me not, my lord—pray for me—let me see you again!" Such were her sobbed and broken prayers—cut short by her unjust judges.