The celebrated name which forms the title to this work will sufficiently
apprise the reader that it is in the earlier half of the fourteenth
century that my story opens.

It was on a summer evening that two youths might be seen walking beside
the banks of the Tiber, not far from that part of its winding course
which sweeps by the base of Mount Aventine. The path they had selected
was remote and tranquil. It was only at a distance that were seen the
scattered and squalid houses that bordered the river, from amidst which
rose, dark and frequent, the high roof and enormous towers which marked
the fortified mansion of some Roman baron. On one side of the river,
behind the cottages of the fishermen, soared Mount Janiculum, dark with
massive foliage, from which gleamed at frequent intervals, the grey
walls of many a castellated palace, and the spires and columns of a
hundred churches; on the other side, the deserted Aventine rose abrupt
and steep, covered with thick brushwood; while, on the height, from
concealed but numerous convents, rolled, not unmusically, along the
quiet landscape and the rippling waves, the sound of the holy bell.

Of the young men introduced in this scene, the elder, who might have
somewhat passed his twentieth year, was of a tall and even commanding
stature; and there was that in his presence remarkable and almost noble,
despite the homeliness of his garb, which consisted of the long, loose
gown and the plain tunic, both of dark-grey serge, which distinguished,
at that time, the dress of the humbler scholars who frequented the
monasteries for such rude knowledge as then yielded a scanty return for
intense toil. His countenance was handsome, and would have been rather
gay than thoughtful in its expression, but for that vague and abstracted
dreaminess of eye which so usually denotes a propensity to revery and