shall be back here before
that time.'

'I'm sorry for it,' said the boy sternly. 'I'd like to think I was
crossing that old courtyard there for the last time.'

'You will be cold, my poor boy,' said the friar, 'with no other covering
but that light frock; but we shall find a carriage as we go along.'

'No, no, no,' cried the boy eagerly. 'Let us walk, Fra; let us walk, and
see everything. It's like one of the old fairy tales nurse used to tell
me long ago--to see the city all alight thus, and the troops of people
moving on, and all these bright shops with the rich wares so temptingly
displayed. Ah! how happy must they be who can wander at will among all
these--exchanging words and greetings, and making brotherhood with their
fellows! See, Fra--see!' cried he, 'what is it comes yonder, with all
the torches, and the men in white?'

'It is some great man's funeral, my child. Let us say a _Pax eterna_,'
and he fumbled for his beads as he spoke.

'Let us follow them,' said the boy; 'they are bearing the catafalque
into that small church--how grand and solemn it all is!' and now,
attaching himself to the long line of acolytes, the boy walked step for
step with the procession, mingling his clear and liquid notes in the
litany they were chanting. While he sang with all the force of intense
expression, it was strange to mark how freely his gaze wandered over
all the details of the scene--his keen eyes scrutinised everything--the
costumes, the looks, the gestures of all; the half tawdry splendour
below--the dim and solemn grandeur of the Gothic roof overhead. If there
was nothing of levity, as little was there anything of reverence in his
features. The sad scene, with all its trappings of woe, was a spectacle,
and no more, to him; and, as he turned away to leave the spot, his face
betrayed the desire he felt for some new object of interest. Nor had he
long to search for such; for, just as they entered the Piazza di
Spagna, they found a dense crowd gathered around a group of those humble
musicians from Calabria--the Pifferari, they call them--stunted in form,
and miserably clad: these poor creatures, whose rude figures recall
old pictures of the ancient Pan, have a wonderful attraction for
the populace. They were singing some wild, rude air of their native
mountains, accompanying the refrain with a sort of dance, while their
uncouth gestures shook the crowd with laughter.

'Oh! I love these fellows, but I never have a chance