in the wind as though they would go out, and the few pedestrians who
hurried along clung closely to the wall as though it offered them some
protection from the moist scirocco. The great doors of the palaces were
most of them closed, but here and there a little red light announced a
wine-shop, and as Marzio passed by he could see through the dirty panes
of glass dark figures sitting in a murky atmosphere over bottles of
coarse wine. The streets were foul with the nauseous smell of decaying
vegetables and damp walls which the south-east wind brings out of the
older parts of Rome, and while few voices were heard in the thick air,
the clatter of horses' hoofs on the wet stones rattled loudly from the
thoroughfares which lead to the theatres. It was a dismal night, but
Marzio Pandolfi felt that his temper was in tune with the weather as he
tramped along towards the Pantheon.

The streets widened as he neared his destination, and he drew his
overcoat more closely about his neck. Presently he reached a small door
close to Sant' Eustachio, one of the several entrances to the ancient
Falcone, an inn which has existed for centuries upon the same spot, in
the same house, and which affords a rather singular variety of
accommodation. Down stairs, upon the square, is a modern restaurant with
plate-glass windows, marble floor, Vienna cane chairs, and a general
appearance of luxury. A flight of steps leads to an upper story, where
there are numerous rooms of every shape and dimension, furnished with
old-fashioned Italian simplicity, though with considerable cleanliness.
Thither resort the large companies of regular guests who have eaten
their meals there during most of their lives. But there is much more
room in the house than appears. The vast kitchen on the ground floor
terminates in a large space, heavily vaulted and lighted by oil lamps,
where rougher tables are set and spread, and where you may see the
well-to-do wine-carter eating his supper after his journey across the