The palace of the Saracinesca is in an ancient quarter of Rome, far
removed from the broad white streets of mushroom dwelling-houses and
machine-laid macadam; far from the foreigners' region, the varnish of the
fashionable shops, the whirl of brilliant equipages, and the scream of
the newsvendor. The vast irregular buildings are built around three
courtyards, and face on all sides upon narrow streets. The first sixteen
feet, up to the heavily ironed windows of the lower storey, consist of
great blocks of stone, worn at the corners and scored along their length
by the battering of ages, by the heavy carts that from time immemorial
have found the way too narrow and have ground their iron axles against
the massive masonry. Of the three enormous arched gates that give access
to the interior from different sides, one is closed by an iron grating,
another by huge doors studded with iron bolts, and the third alone is
usually open as an entrance. A tall old porter used to stand there in a
long livery-coat and a cocked-hat; on holidays he appeared in the
traditional garb of the Parisian "Suisse," magnificent in silk stockings
and a heavily laced coat of dark green, leaning upon his tall mace--a
constant object of wonder to the small boys of the quarter. He trimmed
his white beard in imitation of his master's--broad and square--and his
words were few and to the point.

No one was ever at home in the Palazzo Saracinesca in those days; there
were no ladies in the house; it was a man's establishment, and there was
something severely masculine in the air of the gloomy courtyards
surrounded by dark archways, where not a single plant or bit of colour
relieved the ancient stone. The pavement was clean and well kept, a new
flagstone here and there showing that some care was bestowed upon
maintaining it in good repair; but for any decoration there was to be