bows. Then the old gentleman rises, dusts his clothes carefully with
a white handkerchief, and walks on, talking eagerly as before. Both
he and the priest bend low to the high altar, dip their fingers in the
holy-water, cross themselves, bend again to the altar, turning right
and left--before leaving the cathedral.

"That's Fra Pacifico," cries Carlotta, greatly excited--"Fra Pacifico,
the Marchesa Guinigi's chaplain. He's come down from Corellia for the
festival."--Carlotta is proud to show that she knows somebody, as well
as Cassandra. "When he is in Lucca, Fra Pacifico passes my shop every
morning to say mass in the marchesa's private chapel. He knows all her
sins."

"And the old gentleman with him," puts in Cassandra, twitching her
hook nose, "is old Trenta--Cesare Trenta, the cavaliere. Bless his
dear old face! The duke loved him well. He was chamberlain at the
palace. He's a gentleman all over, is Cavaliere Trenta. There--there.
Look!"--and she points eagerly--"that's the Red count, Count
Marescotti, the republican."

Cassandra lowers her voice, afraid to be overheard, and fixes her eyes
on a man whose every feature and gesture proclaimed him an aristocrat.

Excited by the grandeur of the service, Marescotti's usually pale face
is suffused with color; his large black eyes shine with inner lights.
Looking neither to the right nor to the left, he walks through the
atrium, straight down the marble steps, into the piazza. As he passes
the three women they draw back against the wall. There is a dignity
about Marescotti that involuntarily awes them.