A ragged boy from the Garfagnana, with a tray of plaster heads of Victor Emmanuel and Garibaldi, has put down his wares, and is turning wheels upon the pavement, before the servants, for a penny.  An old man pulls out from under his cloak a dancing dog, with crimson collar and bells, and collects a little crowd under the atrium of the cathedral.  A soldier, touched with compassion, takes a crust from his pocket to reward the dancing dog, which, overcome by the temptation, drops on his four legs, runs to him, and devours it, for which delinquency the old man beats him severely.  His yells echo loudly among the pillars, and drown the rich tide of harmony that ebbs and flows through the open portals.  The beggars have betaken themselves to their accustomed seats on the marble steps of the cathedral, San Martin of Tours, parting his cloak—­carved in alt-relief, over the central entrance—­looking down upon them encouragingly.  These beggars clink their metal boxes languidly, or sleep, lying flat on the stones.  A group of women have jammed themselves into a corner between the cathedral and the hospital adjoining it on that side.  They are waiting to see the company pass out.  Two of them standing close together are talking eagerly.

“My gracious! who would have thought that old witch, the Guinigi,” whispers Carlotta—­Carlotta owned a little mercery-shop in a side-street running by the palace, right under the tower—­to her gossip Brigitta, an occasional customer for cotton and buttons, “who would have thought that she—­gracious! who would have thought she dared to shut up her palace the day of the festival?  Did you see?”

“Yes, I did,” answers Brigitta.

“Curses on her!” hisses out Carlotta, showing her black teeth.  “Listen to me, she will have a great misfortune—­mark my words—­a great misfortune soon—­the stingy old devil!”

Hearing the organ at that instant, Brigitta kneels on the stones, and crosses herself; then rises and looks at Carlotta.  “St. Nicodemus will have his revenge, never fear.”

Carlotta is still speaking.  Brigitta shakes her head prophetically, again looking at Carlotta, whose deep-sunk eyes are fixed upon her.

“Checco says—­Checco is a shoemaker, and he knows the daughter of the man who helps the butler in Casa Guinigi—­Checco says she laughs at the Holy Countenance.  Domine Dio! what an infamy!” cries Carlotta, in a cracked voice, raising her skinny hands and shaking them in the air.  “I hate the Guinigi!  I hate her!  I spit on her, I curse her!”

There is such venom in Carlotta’s looks and in Carlotta’s words that Brigitta suddenly takes her eyes off a man with a red waistcoat whom she is ogling, but who by no means reciprocates her attention, and asks Carlotta sharply, “Why she hates the marchesa?”